Is it insanity to believe that Christian Scientism is destined to make

the most formidable show that any new religion has made in the world

since the birth and spread of Mohammedanism, and that within a century

from now it may stand second to Rome only, in numbers and power in

Christendom?

If this is a wild dream it will not be easy to prove it is so just yet, I

think. There seems argument that it may come true. The

Christian-Science 'boom' is not yet five years old; yet already it has

500 churches and 1,000,000 members in America.

It has its start, you see, and it is a phenomenally good one. Moreover,

it is latterly spreading with a constantly accelerating swiftness. It

has a better chance to grow and prosper and achieve permanency than any

other existing 'ism;' for it has more to offer than any other. The past

teaches us that, in order to succeed, a movement like this must not be a

mere philosophy, it must be a religion; also, that it must not claim

entire originality, but content itself with passing for an improvement on

an existing religion, and show its hand later, when strong and

prosperous--like Mohammedanism.

Next, there must be money--and plenty of it.

Next, the power and authority and capital must be concentrated in the

grip of a small and irresponsible clique, with nobody outside privileged

to ask questions or find fault.

Next, as before remarked, it must bait its hook with some new and

attractive advantages over the baits offered by the other religions.

A new movement equipped with some of these endowments--like spiritualism,

for instance--may count upon a considerable success; a new movement

equipped with the bulk of them--like Mohammedanism, for instance--may

count upon a widely extended conquest. Mormonism had all the requisites

but one--it had nothing new and nothing valuable to bait with; and,

besides, it appealed to the stupid and the ignorant only. Spiritualism

lacked the important detail of concentration of money and authority in

the hands of an irresponsible clique.

The above equipment is excellent, admirable, powerful, but not perfect.

There is yet another detail which is worth the whole of it put together

--and more; a detail which has never been joined (in the beginning of a

religious movement) to a supremely good working equipment since the world

began, until now: a new personage to worship. Christianity had the

Saviour, but at first and for generations it lacked money and

concentrated power. In Mrs. Eddy, Christian Science possesses the new

personage for worship, and in addition--here in the very beginning--a

working equipment that has not a flaw in it. In the beginning,

Mohammedanism had no money; and it has never had anything to offer its

client but heaven--nothing here below that was valuable. In addition to

heaven hereafter, Christian Science has present health and a cheerful

spirit to offer--for cash--and in comparison with this bribe all other

this-world bribes are poor and cheap. You recognise that this estimate

is admissible, do you not?

To whom does Bellamy's 'Nationalism' appeal? Necessarily to the few:

people who read and dream, and are compassionate, and troubled for the

poor and the hard-driven. To whom does Spiritualism appeal? Necessarily

to the few; its 'boom' has lasted for half a century and I believe it

claims short of four millions of adherents in America. Who are attracted

by Swedenborgianism and some of the other fine and delicate 'isms?' The

few again: Educated people, sensitively organised, with superior mental

endowments, who seek lofty planes of thought and find their contentment

there. And who are attracted by Christian Science? There is no limit;

its field is horizonless; its appeal is as universal as is the appeal of

Christianity itself. It appeals to the rich, the poor, the high, the

low, the cultured, the ignorant, the gifted, the stupid, the modest, the

vain, the wise, the silly, the soldier, the civilian, the hero, the

coward, the idler, the worker, the godly, the godless, the freeman, the

slave, the adult, the child; they who are ailing, they who have friends

that are ailing. To mass it in a phrase, its clientele is the Human

Race? Will it march? I think so.

VII

Remember its principal great offer: to rid the Race of pain and disease.

Can it do it? In large measure, yes. How much of the pain and disease

in the world is created by the imaginations of the sufferers, and then

kept alive by those same imaginations? Four-fifths? Not anything short

of that I should think. Can Christian Science banish that four-fifths?

I think so. Can any other (organised) force do it? None that I know of.

Would this be a new world when that was accomplished? And a pleasanter

one--for us well people, as well as for those fussy and fretting sick

ones? Would it seem as if there was not as much gloomy weather as there

used to be? I think so.

In the meantime would the Scientist kill off a good many patients? I

think so. More than get killed off now by the legalised methods? I will

take up that question presently.

At present I wish to ask you to examine some of the Scientist's

performances, as registered in his magazine, 'The Christian Science

Journal'--October number, 1898. First, a Baptist clergyman gives us this

true picture of 'the average orthodox Christian'--and he could have added

that it is a true picture of the average (civilised) human being:

'He is a worried and fretted and fearful man; afraid of himself and his

propensities, afraid of colds and fevers, afraid of treading on serpents

or drinking deadly things.'

Then he gives us this contrast:

'The average Christian Scientist has put all anxiety and fretting under

his feet. He does have a victory over fear and care that is not achieved

by the average orthodox Christian.'

He has put all anxiety and fretting under his feet. What proportion of

your earnings or income would you be willing to pay for that frame of

mind, year in year out? It really outvalues any price that can be put

upon it. Where can you purchase it, at any outlay of any sort, in any

Church or out of it, except the Scientist's?

Well, it is the anxiety and fretting about colds, and fevers, and

draughts, and getting our feet wet, and about forbidden food eaten in

terror of indigestion, that brings on the cold and the fever and the

indigestion and the most of our other ailments; and so, if the Science

can banish that anxiety from the world I think it can reduce the world's

disease and pain about four-fifths.

In this October number many of the redeemed testify and give thanks; and

not coldly but with passionate gratitude. As a rule they seem drunk with

health, and with the surprise of it, the wonder of it, the unspeakable

glory and splendour of it, after a long sober spell spent in inventing

imaginary diseases and concreting them with doctor-stuff. The first

witness testifies that when 'this most beautiful Truth first dawned on

him' he had 'nearly all the ills that flesh is heir to;' that those he

did not have he thought he had--and thus made the tale about complete.

What was the natural result? Why, he was a dump-pit 'for all the

doctors, druggists, and patent medicines of the country.' Christian

Science came to his help, and 'the old sick conditions passed away,' and

along with them the 'dismal forebodings' which he had been accustomed to

employ in conjuring up ailments. And so he was a healthy and cheerful

man, now, and astonished.

But I am not astonished, for from other sources I know what must have

been his method of applying Christian Science. If I am in the right, he

watchfully and diligently diverted his mind from unhealthy channels and

compelled it to travel in healthy ones. Nothing contrivable by human

invention could be more formidably effective than that, in banishing

imaginary ailments and in closing the entrances against subsequent

applicants of their breed. I think his method was to keep saying, 'I am

well! I am sound!--sound and well! well and sound! Perfectly sound,

perfectly well! I have no pain; there's no such thing as pain! I have no

disease; there's no such thing as disease! Nothing is real but Mind; all

is Mind, All-Good, Good-Good, Life, Soul, Liver, Bones, one of a series,

ante and pass the buck!'

I do not mean that that was exactly the formula used, but that it

doubtless contains the spirit of it. The Scientist would attach value to

the exact formula, no doubt, and to the religious spirit in which it was

used. I should think that any formula that would divert the mind from

unwholesome channels and force it into healthy ones would answer every

purpose with some people, though not with all. I think it most likely

that a very religious man would find the addition of the religious spirit

a powerful reinforcement in his case.

The second witness testifies that the Science banished 'an old organic

trouble' which the doctor and the surgeon had been nursing with drugs and

the knife for seven years.

He calls it his 'claim.' A surface-miner would think it was not his

claim at all, but the property of the doctor and his pal the surgeon--for

he would be misled by that word, which is Christian-Science slang for

'ailment.' The Christian Scientist has no ailment; to him there is no

such thing, and he will not use the lying word. All that happens to him

is, that upon his attention an imaginary disturbance sometimes obtrudes

itself which claims to be an ailment, but isn't.

This witness offers testimony for a clergyman seventy years old who had

preached forty years in a Christian church, and has not gone over to the

new sect. He was 'almost blind and deaf.' He was treated by the C.S.

method, and 'when he heard the voice of Truth he saw spiritually.' Saw

spiritually. It is a little indefinite; they had better treat him again.

Indefinite testimonies might properly be waste-basketed, since there is

evidently no lack of definite ones procurable, but this C.S. magazine is

poorly edited, and so mistakes of this kind must be expected.

The next witness is a soldier of the Civil War. When Christian Science

found him, he had in stock the following claims:

Indigestion,

Rheumatism,

Catarrh,

Chalky deposits in

Shoulder joints,

Arm joints,

Hand joints,

Atrophy of the muscles of

Arms,

Shoulders,

Stiffness of all those joints,

Insomnia,

Excruciating pains most of the time.

These claims have a very substantial sound. They came of exposure in the

campaigns. The doctors did all they could, but it was little. Prayers

were tried, but 'I never realised any physical relief from that source.'

After thirty years of torture he went to a Christian Scientist and took

an hour's treatment and went home painless. Two days later he 'began to

eat like a well man.' Then 'the claims vanished--some at once, others

more gradually;' finally, 'they have almost entirely disappeared.' And

--a thing which is of still greater value--he is now 'contented and happy.'

That is a detail which, as earlier remarked, is a Scientist-Church

specialty. With thirty-one years' effort the Methodist Church had not

succeeded in furnishing it to this harassed soldier.

And so the tale goes on. Witness after witness bulletins his claims,

declares their prompt abolishment, and gives Mrs. Eddy's Discovery the

praise. Milk-leg is cured; nervous prostration is cured; consumption is

cured; and St. Vitus's dance made a pastime. And now and then an

interesting new addition to the Science slang appears on the page. We

have 'demonstrations over' chilblains and such things. It seems to be a

curtailed way of saying 'demonstrations of the power of Christian-Science

Truth over the fiction which masquerades under the name of Chilblains.'

The children as well as the adults, share in the blessings of the

Science. 'Through the study of the "little book" they are learning how

to be healthful, peaceful, and wise.' Sometimes they are cured of their

little claims by the professional healer, and sometimes more advanced

children say over the formula and cure themselves.

A little Far-Western girl of nine, equipped with an adult vocabulary,

states her age and says, 'I thought I would write a demonstration to

you.' She had a claim derived from getting flung over a pony's head and

landed on a rock-pile. She saved herself from disaster by remember to

say 'God is All' while she was in the air. I couldn't have done it. I

shouldn't have even thought of it. I should have been too excited.

Nothing but Christian Science could have enabled that child to do that

calm and thoughtful and judicious thing in those circumstances. She came

down on her head, and by all the rules she should have broken it; but the

intervention of the formula prevented that, so the only claim resulting

was a blackened eye. Monday morning it was still swollen and shut. At

school 'it hurt pretty bad--that is, it seemed to.' So 'I was excused,

and went down in the basement and said, "Now I am depending on mamma

instead of God, and I will depend on God instead of mamma."' No doubt

this would have answered; but, to make sure, she added Mrs. Eddy to the

team and recited 'the Scientific Statement of Being,' which is one of the

principal incantations, I judge. Then 'I felt my eye opening.' Why, it

would have opened an oyster. I think it is one of the touchingest things

in child-history, that pious little rat down cellar pumping away at the

Scientific Statement of Being.

There is a page about another good child--little Gordon. Little Gordon

'came into the world without the assistance of surgery or anaesthetics.'

He was a 'demonstration.' A painless one; therefore his coming evoked

'joy and thankfulness to God and the Discoverer of Christian Science.'

It is a noticeable feature of this literature--the so frequent linking

together of the Two Beings in an equal bond; also of Their Two Bibles.

When little Gordon was two years old, 'he was playing horse on the bed,

where I had left my "little book." I noticed him stop in his play, take

the book carefully in his little hands, kiss it softly, then look about

for the highest place of safety his arms could reach, and put it there.'

This pious act filled the mother 'with such a train of thought as I had

never experienced before. I thought of the sweet mother of long ago who

kept things in her heart,' etc. It is a bold comparison; however,

unconscious profanations are about as common in the mouths of the lay

membership of the new Church as are frank and open ones in the mouths of

its consecrated chiefs.

Some days later, the family library--Christian Science books--was lying

in a deep-seated window. It was another chance for the holy child to

show off. He left his play and went there and pushed all the books to

one side except the Annex. 'It he took in both hands, slowly raised it

to his lips, then removed it carefully, and seated himself in the

window.' It had seemed to the mother too wonderful to be true, that

first time; but now she was convinced that 'neither imagination nor

accident had anything to do with it.' Later, little Gordon let the

author of his being see him do it. After that he did it frequently;

probably every time anybody was looking. I would rather have that child

than a chromo. If this tale has any object, it is to intimate that the

inspired book was supernaturally able to convey a sense of its sacred and

awful character to this innocent little creature without the intervention

of outside aids. The magazine is not edited with high-priced discretion.

The editor has a claim, and he ought to get it treated.

Among other witnesses, there is one who had a 'jumping toothache,' which

several times tempted her to 'believe that there was sensation in matter,

but each time it was overcome by the power of Truth.' She would not

allow the dentist to use cocaine, but sat there and let him punch and

drill and split and crush the tool, and tear and slash its ulcerations,

and pull out the nerve, and dig out fragments of bone; and she wouldn't

once confess that it hurt. And to this day she thinks it didn't, and I

have not a doubt that she is nine-tenths right, and that her Christian

Science faith did her better service than she could have gotten out of

cocaine.

There is an account of a boy who got broken all up into small bits by an

accident, but said over the Scientific Statement of Being, or some of the

other incantations, and got well and sound without having suffered any

real pain and without the intrusion of a surgeon. I can believe this,

because my own case was somewhat similar, as per my former article.

Also there is an account of the restoration to perfect health, in a

single night, of a fatally injured horse, by the application of Christian

Science. I can stand a good deal, but I recognise that the ice is

getting thin here. That horse had as many as fifty claims: how could he

demonstrate over them? Could he do the All-Good, Good-Good,

Good-Gracious, Liver, Bones, Truth, All down but Nine, Set them up on the

Other Alley? Could he intone the Scientific Statement of Being? Now,

could he? Wouldn't it give him a relapse? Let us draw the line at

horses. Horses and furniture.

There is a plenty of other testimonies in the magazine, but these quoted

samples will answer. They show the kind of trade the Science is driving.

Now we come back to the question; Does it kill a patient here and there

and now and then? We must concede it. Does it compensate for this? I

am persuaded that it can make a plausible showing in that direction. For

instance: when it lays its hands upon a soldier who has suffered thirty

years of helpless torture and makes him whole in body and mind, what is

the actual sum of that achievement? This, I think: that it has restored

to life a subject who had essentially died ten deaths a year for thirty

years, and each of them a long and painful one. But for its interference

that man would have essentially died thirty times more, in the three

years which have since elapsed. There are thousand of young people in

the land who are now ready to enter upon a life-long death similar to

that man's. Every time the Science captures one of these and secures to

him life-long immunity from imagination-manufactured disease, it may

plausibly claim that in his person it has saved 300 lives. Meantime it

will kill a man every now and then; but no matter, it will still be ahead

on the credit side.

VIII

'We consciously declare that "Science and Health with Key to the

Scriptures," was foretold as well as its author, Mary Baker Eddy, in

Revelation x. She is the "mighty angel," or God's highest thought

to this age (verse 1), giving us the spiritual interpretation of the

Bible in the "little book open" (verse 2). Thus we prove that

Christian Science is the second coming of Christ--Truth--Spirit.'

--Lecture by Dr. George Tomkins, D.D., C.S.

There you have it in plain speech. She is the mighty angel; she is the

divinely and officially sent bearer of God's highest thought. For the

present, she brings the Second Advent. We must expect that before she

has been in her grave fifty years she will be regarded by her following

as having been herself the Second Advent. She is already worshipped, and

we must expect this feeling to spread territorially, and also to deepen

in intensity [1].

Particularly after her death; for then, as anyone can foresee,

Eddy-worship will be taught in the Sunday-schools and pulpits of the

cult. Already whatever she puts her trade-mark on, thought it be only a

memorial spoon, is holy and is eagerly and passionately and gratefully

bought by the disciple, and becomes a fetish in his house. I say bought,

for the Boston Christian-Science Trust gives nothing away; everything it

has for sale. And the terms are cash; and not cash only but cash in

advance. Its god is Mrs. Eddy first, then the Dollar. Not a spiritual

Dollar, but a real one. From end to end of the Christian-Science

literature not a single (material) thing in the world is conceded to be

real, except the Dollar. But all through and through its advertisements

that reality is eagerly and persistently recognised. The hunger of the

Trust for the Dollar, its adoration of the Dollar, its lust after the

Dollar, its ecstasy in the mere thought of the Dollar--there has been

nothing like it in the world in any age or country, nothing so coarse,

nothing so lubricous, nothing so bestial, except a French novel's

attitude towards adultery.

The Dollar is hunted down in all sorts of ways; the Christian-Science

Mother-Church and Bargain-Counter in Boston peddles all kinds of

spiritual wares to the faithful, always at extravagant prices, and always

on the one condition--cash, cash in advance. The Angel of the Apocalypse

could not go there and get a copy of his own pirated book on credit.

Many, many precious Christian-Science things are to be had there--for

cash: Bible Lessons; Church Manual; C.S. Hymnal; History of the building

of the Mother-Church; lot of Sermons; Communion Hymn, 'Saw Ye My

Saviour,' by Mrs. Eddy, half a dollar a copy, 'words used by special

permission of Mrs. Eddy.' Also we have Mrs. Eddy's and the Angel's

little Bible-Annex in eight styles of binding at eight kinds of

war-prices: among these a sweet thing in 'levant, divinity circuit,

leather lined to edge, round corners, gold edge, silk sewed, each,

prepaid, $6,' and if you take a million you get them a shilling

cheaper--that is to say, 'prepaid, $5.75.' Also we have Mrs. Eddy's

'Miscellaneous Writings,' at noble big prices, the divinity-circuit

style heading the extortions, shilling discount where you take an

edition. Next comes 'Christ and Christmas,' by the fertile Mrs.

Eddy--a poem--I would God I could see it--price $3, cash in advance.

Then follow five more books by Mrs. Eddy at highwaymen's rates, as

usual, some of them in 'leatherette covers,' some of them in 'pebbled

cloth,' with divinity circuit, compensation balance, twin screw, and

the other modern improvements: and at the same bargain counter can be

had the 'Christian Science Journal.' I wish it were in refined taste

to apply a rudely and ruggedly descriptive epithet to that literary

slush-bucket, so as to give one an accurate idea of what it is like.

I am moved to do it, but I must not: it is better to be refined than

accurate when one is talking about a production like that.

Christian-Science literary oleomargarine is a monopoly of the Mother

Church Headquarters Factory in Boston; none genuine without the

trade-mark of the Trust. You must apply there, and not elsewhere; and

you pay your money before you get your soap-fat.

The Trust has still other sources of income. Mrs. Eddy is president (and

perhaps proprietor?) of the Trust's Metaphysical College in Boston, where

the student who has practised C.S. healing during three years the best

he knew how perfects himself in the game by a two weeks' course, and pays

one hundred dollars for it! And I have a case among my statistics where

the student had a three weeks' course and paid three hundred for it.

The Trust does love the Dollar when it isn't a spiritual one.

In order to force the sale of Mrs. Eddy's Bible-Annex, no healer,

Metaphysical College-bred or other, is allowed to practise the game

unless he possess a copy of that holy nightmare. That means a large and

constantly augmenting income for the Trust. No C.S. family would

consider itself loyal or pious or pain-proof without an Annex or two in

the house. That means an income for the Trust--in the near future--of

millions: not thousands--millions a year.

No member, young or old, of a Christian-Scientist church can retain that

membership unless he pay 'capitation tax' to the Boston Trust every year.

That means an income for the Trust--in the near future--of millions more

per year.

It is a reasonably safe guess that in America in 1910 there will be

10,000,000 Christian Scientists, and 3,000,000 in Great Britain; that

these figures will be trebled by 1920; that in America in 1910 the

Christian Scientists will be a political force, in 1920 politically

formidable--to remain that, permanently. And I think it a reasonable

guess that the Trust (which is already in our day pretty brusque in its

ways) will then be the most insolent and unscrupulous and tyrannical

politico-religious master that has dominated a people since the palmy

days of the Inquisition. And a stronger master than the strongest of

bygone times, because this one will have a financial strength not dreamed

of by any predecessor; as effective a concentration of irresponsible

power as any predecessor had; in the railway, the telegraph, and the

subsidised newspaper, better facilities for watching and managing his

empire than any predecessor has had; and after a generation or two he

will probably divide Christendom with the Catholic Church.

The Roman Church has a perfect organisation, and it has an effective

centralisation of power--but not of its cash. Its multitude of Bishops

are rich, but their riches remain in large measure in their own hands.

They collect from 200,000,000 of people, but they keep the bulk of the

result at home. The Boston Pope of by-and-by will draw his dollar-a-head

capitation-tax from 300,000,000 of the human race, and the Annex and the

rest of his book-shop will fetch in double as much more; and his

Metaphysical Colleges, the annual pilgrimage to Mrs. Eddy's tomb, from

all over the world--admission, the Christian-Science Dollar (payable in

advance)--purchases of consecrated glass beads, candles, memorial spoons,

aureoled chromo-portraits and bogus autographs of Mrs. Eddy, cash

offerings at her shrine--no crutches of cured cripples received, and no

imitations of miraculously restored broken legs and necks allowed to be

hung up except when made out of the Holy Metal and proved by fire-assay;

cash for miracles worked at the tomb: these money-sources, with a

thousand to be yet invented and ambushed upon the devotee, will bring the

annual increment well up above a billion. And nobody but the Trust will

have the handling of it. No Bishops appointed unless they agree to hand

in 90 per cent. of the catch. In that day the Trust will monopolise the

manufacture and sale of the Old and New Testaments as well as the Annex,

and raise their price to Annex rates, and compel the devotee to buy (for

even to-day a healer has to have the Annex and the Scriptures or he is

not allowed to work the game), and that will bring several hundred

million dollars more. In those days the Trust will have an income

approaching $5,000,000 a day, and no expenses to be taken out of it; no

taxes to pay, and no charities to support. That last detail should not

be lightly passed over by the read; it is well entitled to attention.

No charities to support. No, nor even to contribute to. One searches in

vain the Trust's advertisements and the utterances of its pulpit for any

suggestion that it spends a penny on orphans, widows, discharged

prisoners, hospitals, ragged schools, night missions, city missions,

foreign missions, libraries, old people's homes, or any other object that

appeals to a human being's purse through his heart.[2]

I have hunted, hunted, and hunted, by correspondence and otherwise, and

have not yet got upon the track of a farthing that the Trust has spent

upon any worthy object. Nothing makes a Scientist so uncomfortable as to

ask him if he knows of a case where Christian Science has spent money on

a benevolence, either among its own adherents or elsewhere. He is

obliged to say no. And then one discovers that the person questioned has

been asked the question many times before, and that it is getting to be a

sore subject with him. Why a sore subject? Because he has written his

chiefs and asked with high confidence for an answer that will confound

these questioners--and the chiefs did not reply. He has written again

--and then again--not with confidence, but humbly, now, and has begged for

defensive ammunition in the voice of supplication. A reply does at last

come--to this effect: 'We must have faith in Our Mother, and rest content

in the conviction that whatever She[3] does with the money it is in

accordance with orders from Heaven, for She does no act of any kind

without first "demonstrating over" it.'

That settles it--as far as the disciple is concerned. His Mind is

entirely satisfied with that answer; he gets down his Annex and does an

incantation or two, and that mesmerises his spirit and puts that to

sleep--brings it peace. Peace and comfort and joy, until some inquirer

punctures the old sore again.

Through friends in America I asked some questions, and in some cases got

definite and informing answers; in other cases the answers were not

definite and not valuable. From the definite answers I gather than the

'capitation-tax' is compulsory, and that the sum is one dollar. To the

question, 'Does any of the money go to charities?' the answer from an

authoritative source was: 'No, *not in the sense usually conveyed by this

word*.' (The italics are mine.) That answer is cautious. But definite,

I think--utterly and unassailably definite--although quite

Christian-scientifically foggy in its phrasing. Christian Science is

generally foggy, generally diffuse, generally garrulous. The writer was

aware that the first word in his phrase answered the question which I was

asking, but he could not help adding nine dark words. Meaningless ones,

unless explained by him. It is quite likely--as intimated by him--that

Christian Science has invented a new class of objects to apply the word

charity to, but without an explanation we cannot know what they are. We

quite easily and naturally and confidently guess that they are in all

cases objects which will return five hundred per cent. on the Trust's

investment in them, but guessing is not knowledge; it is merely, in this

case, a sort of nine-tenths certainty deducible from what we think we

know of the Trust's trade principles and its sly and furtive and shifty

ways.

Sly? Deep? Judicious? The Trust understands business. The Trust does

not give itself away. It defeats all the attempts of us impertinents to

get at its trade secrets. To this day, after all our diligence, we have

not been able to get it to confess what it does with the money. It does

not even let its own disciples find out. All it says is, that the matter

has been 'demonstrated over.' Now and then a lay Scientist says, with a

grateful exultation, that Mrs. Eddy is enormously rich, but he stops

there; as to whether any of the money goes to other charities or not, he

is obliged to admit that he does not know. However, the Trust is

composed of human beings; and this justifies the conjecture that if it

had a charity on its list which it did not need to blush for, we should

soon hear of it.

'Without money and without price.' Those used to be the terms. Mrs.

Eddy's Annex cancels them. The motto of Christian Science is 'The

labourer is worthy of his hire.' And now that it has been 'demonstrated

over,' we find its spiritual meaning to be, 'Do anything and everything

your hand may find to do; and charge cash for it, and collect the money

in advance.' The Scientist has on his tongue's end a cut-and-dried,

Boston-supplied set of rather lean arguments whose function is to show

that it is a Heaven-commanded duty to do this, and that the croupiers of

the game have no choice by to obey.

The Trust seems to be a reincarnation. Exodus xxxii.4.

I have no reverence for Mrs. Eddy and the rest of the Trust--if there is

a rest--but I am not lacking in reverence for the sincerities of the lay

membership of the new Church. There is every evidence that the lay

members are entirely sincere in their faith, and I think sincerity is

always entitled to honour and respect, let the inspiration of the

sincerity be what it may. Zeal and sincerity can carry a new religion

further than any other missionary except fire and sword, and I believe

that the new religion will conquer the half of Christendom in a hundred

years. I am not intending this as a compliment to the human race, I am

merely stating an opinion. And yet I think that perhaps it is a

compliment to the race. I keep in mind that saying of an orthodox

preacher--quoted further back. He conceded that this new Christianity

frees its possessor's life from frets, fears, vexations, bitterness, and

all sorts of imagination-propagated maladies and pains, and fills his

world with sunshine and his heart with gladness. If Christian Science,

with this stupendous equipment--and final salvation added--cannot win

half the Christian globe, I must be badly mistaken in the make-up of the

human race.

I think the Trust will be handed down like the other papacy, and will

always know how to handle its limitless cash. It will press the button;

the zeal, the energy, the sincerity, the enthusiasm of its countless

vassals will do the rest.

IX

The power which a man's imagination has over his body to heal it or make

it sick is a force which none of us is born without. The first man had

it, the last one will possess it. If left to himself a man is most

likely to use only the mischievous half of the force--the half which

invents imaginary ailments for him and cultivates them: and if he is one

of these very wise people he is quite likely to scoff at the beneficent

half of the force and deny its existence. And so, to heal or help that

man, two imaginations are required: his own and some outsider's. The

outsider, B, must imagine that his incantations are the healing power

that is curing A, and A must imagine that this is so. It is not so, at

all; but no matter, the cure is effected, and that is the main thing.

The outsider's work is unquestionably valuable; so valuable that it may

fairly be likened to the essential work performed by the engineer when he

handles the throttle and turns on the steam: the actual power is lodged

exclusively in the engine, but if the engine were left alone it would

never start of itself. Whether the engineer be named Jim, or Bob, or

Tom, it is all one--his services are necessary, and he is entitled to

such wage as he can get you to pay. Whether he be named Christian

Scientist, or Mental Scientist, or Mind Curist, or Lourdes

Miracle-Worker, or King's-Evil Expert, it is all one,--he is merely the

Engineer, he simply turns on the same old steam and the engine does the

whole work.

In the case of the cure-engine it is a distinct advantage to clothe the

engineer in religious overalls and give him a pious name. It greatly

enlarges the business, and does no one any harm.

The Christian-Scientist engineer drives exactly the same trade as the

other engineers, yet he out-prospers the whole of them put together. Is

it because he has captured the takingest name? I think that that is only

a small part of it. I think that the secret of his high prosperity lies

elsewhere:

The Christian Scientist has organised the business. Now that was

certainly a gigantic idea. There is more intellect in it than

would be needed in the invention of a couple of millions of Eddy

Science-and-Health Bible Annexes. Electricity, in limitless volume, has

existed in the air and the rocks and the earth and everywhere since time

began--and was going to waste all the while. In our time we have

organised that scattered and wandering force and set it to work, and

backed the business with capital, and concentrated it in few and

competent hands, and the results are as we see.

The Christian Scientist has taken a force which has been lying idle in

every member of the human race since time began, and has organised it,

and backed the business with capital, and concentrated it at Boston

headquarters in the hands of a small and very competent Trust, and there

are results.

Therein lies the promise that this monopoly is going to extend its

commerce wide in the earth. I think that if the business were conducted

in the loose and disconnected fashion customary with such things, it

would achieve but little more than the modest prosperity usually secured

by unorganised great moral and commercial ventures; but I believe that so

long as this one remains compactly organised and closely concentrated in

a Trust, the spread of its dominion will continue.

VIENNA: May 1, 1899.

[1] After raising a dead child to life, the disciple who did it writes an

account of her performance, to Mrs. Eddy, and closes it thus: 'My prayer

daily is to be more spiritual, that I may do more as you would have me

do... and may we all love you more and so live it that the world may

know that the Christ is come.'--Printed in the Concord, N.H.,

Independent Statesman, March 9, 1899. If this is no worship, it is a

good imitation of it.

[2] In the past two years the membership of the Established Church of

England have given voluntary contributions amounting to $73,000,000 to

the Church's benevolent enterprises. Churches that give have nothing to

hide.

[3] I may be introducing the capital S a little early--still it is on its

way.

IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD?

I was spending the month of March 1892 at Mentone, in the Riviera. At

this retired spot one has all the advantages, privately, which are to be

had publicly at Monte Carlo and Nice, a few miles farther along. That is

to say, one has the flooding sunshine, the balmy air and the brilliant

blue sea, without the marring additions of human pow-wow and fuss and

feathers and display. Mentone is quiet, simple, restful, unpretentious;

the rich and the gaudy do not come there. As a rule, I mean, the rich do

not come there. Now and then a rich man comes, and I presently got

acquainted with one of these. Partially to disguise him I will call him

Smith. One day, in the Hotel des Anglais, at the second breakfast, he

exclaimed:

'Quick! Cast your eye on the man going out at the door. Take in every

detail of him.'

'Why?'

'Do you know who he is?'

'Yes. He spent several days here before you came. He is an old,

retired, and very rich silk manufacturer from Lyons, they say, and I

guess he is alone in the world, for he always looks sad and dreamy, and

doesn't talk with anybody. His name is Theophile Magnan.'

I supposed that Smith would now proceed to justify the large interest

which he had shown in Monsieur Magnan, but, instead, he dropped into a

brown study, and was apparently lost to me and to the rest of the world

during some minutes. Now and then he passed his fingers through his

flossy white hair, to assist his thinking, and meantime he allowed his

breakfast to go on cooling. At last he said:

'No, it's gone; I can't call it back.'

'Can't call what back?'

'It's one of Hans Andersen's beautiful little stories. But it's gone fro

me. Part of it is like this: A child has a caged bird, which it loves

but thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song unheard and

unheeded; but, in time, hunger and thirst assail the creature, and its

song grows plaintive and feeble and finally ceases--the bird dies. The

child comes, and is smitten to the heart with remorse: then, with bitter

tears and lamentations, it calls its mates, and they bury the bird with

elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without knowing, poor things,

that it isn't children only who starve poets to death and then spend

enough on their funerals and monuments to have kept them alive and made

them easy and comfortable. Now--'

But here we were interrupted. About ten that evening I ran across Smith,

and he asked me up to his parlour to help him smoke and drink hot Scotch.

It was a cosy place, with its comfortable chairs, its cheerful lamps, and

its friendly open fire of seasoned olive-wood. To make everything

perfect, there was a muffled booming of the surf outside. After the

second Scotch and much lazy and contented chat, Smith said:

'Now we are properly primed--I to tell a curious history and you to

listen to it. It has been a secret for many years--a secret between me

and three others; but I am going to break the seal now. Are you

comfortable?'

'Perfectly. Go on.'

Here follows what he told me:

'A long time ago I was a young artist--a very young artist, in fact--and

I wandered about the country parts of France, sketching here and

sketching there, and was presently joined by a couple of darling young

Frenchmen who were at the same kind of thing that I was doing. We were

as happy as we were poor, or as poor as we were happy--phrase it to suit

yourself. Claude Frere and Carl Boulanger--these are the names of those

boys; dear, dear fellows, and the sunniest spirits that ever laughed at

poverty and had a noble good time in all weathers.

'At last we ran hard aground in a Breton village, and an artist as poor

as ourselves took us in and literally saved us from starving--Francois

Millet--'

'What! the great Francois Millet?'

'Great? He wasn't any greater than we were, then. He hadn't any fame,

even in his own village; and he was so poor that he hadn't anything to

feed us on but turnips, and even the turnips failed us sometimes. We

four became fast friends, doting friends, inseparables. We painted away

together with all our might, piling up stock, piling up stock, but very

seldom getting rid of any of it. We had lovely times together; but, O my

soul! how we were pinched now and then!

'For a little over two years this went on. At last, one day, Claude

said:

'"Boys, we've come to the end. Do you understand that?--absolutely to

the end. Everybody has struck--there's a league formed against us. I've

been all around the village and it's just as I tell you. They refuse to

credit us for another centime until all the odds and ends are paid up."

'This struck us as cold. Every face was blank with dismay. We realised

that our circumstances were desperate, now. There was a long silence.

Finally, Millet said with a sigh:

'"Nothing occurs to me--nothing. Suggest something, lads."

'There was no response, unless a mournful silence may be called a

response. Carl got up, and walked nervously up and down a while, then

said:

'"It's a shame! Look at these canvases: stacks and stacks of as good

pictures as anybody in Europe paints--I don't care who he is. Yes, and

plenty of lounging strangers have said the same--or nearly that, anyway."

'"But didn't buy," Millet said.

'"No matter, they said it; and it's true, too. Look at your 'Angelus'

there! Will anybody tell me--"

'"Pah, Carl--My 'Angelus!' I was offered five francs for it."

'"When?"

'"Who offered it?"

'"Where is he?"

'"Why didn't you take it?"

'"Come--don't all speak at once. I thought he would give more--I was

sure of it--he looked it--so I asked him eight."

'"Well--and then?"

'"He said he would call again."

'"Thunder and lightning! Why, Francois--"

'"Oh, I know--I know! It was a mistake, and I was a fool. Boys, I meant

for the best; you'll grant me that, and I--"

'"Why, certainly, we know that, bless your dear heart; but don't you be a

fool again."

'"I? I wish somebody would come along and offer us a cabbage for it

--you'd see!"

'"A cabbage! Oh, don't name it--it makes my mouth water. Talk of things

less trying."

'"Boys," said Carl, "do these pictures lack merit? Answer me that."

'"No!"

'"Aren't they of very great and high merit? Answer me that."

'"Yes."

'"Of such great and high merit that, if an illustrious name were attached

to them they would sell at splendid prices. Isn't it so?"

'"Certainly it is. Nobody doubts that."

'"But--I'm not joking--isn't it so?"

'"Why, of course it's so--and we are not joking. But what of it. What

of it? How does that concern us?"

'"In this way, comrades--we'll attach an illustrious name to them!"

'The lively conversation stopped. The faces were turned inquiringly upon

Carl. What sort of riddle might this be? Where was an illustrious name

to be borrowed? And who was to borrow it?

'Carl sat down, and said:

'"Now, I have a perfectly serious thing to propose. I think it is the

only way to keep us out of the almshouse, and I believe it to be a

perfectly sure way. I base this opinion upon certain multitudinous and

long-established facts in human history. I believe my project will make

us all rich."

'"Rich! You've lost your mind."

'"No, I haven't."

'"Yes, you have--you've lost your mind. What do you call rich?"

'"A hundred thousand francs apiece."

'"He has lost his mind. I knew it."

'"Yes, he has. Carl, privation has been too much for you, and--"

'"Carl, you want to take a pill and get right to bed."

'"Bandage him first--bandage his head, and then--"

'"No, bandage his heels; his brains have been settling for weeks--I've

noticed it."

'"Shut up!" said Millet, with ostensible severity, "and let the boy have

his say. Now, then--come out with your project, Carl. What is it?"

'"Well, then, by way of preamble I will ask you to note this fact in

human history: that the merit of many a great artist has never been

acknowledged until after he was starved and dead. This has happened so

often that I make bold to found a law upon it. This law: that the merit

of every great unknown and neglected artist must and will be recognised

and his pictures climb to high prices after his death. My project is

this: we must cast lots--one of us must die."

'The remark fell so calmly and so unexpectedly that we almost forgot to

jump. Then there was a wild chorus of advice again--medical advice--for

the help of Carl's brain; but he waited patiently for the hilarity to

calm down, and then went on again with his project:

'"Yes, one of us must die, to save the others--and himself. We will cast

lots. The one chosen shall be illustrious, all of us shall be rich.

Hold still, now--hold still; don't interrupt--I tell you I know what I am

talking about. Here is the idea. During the next three months the one

who is to die shall paint with all his might, enlarge his stock all he

can--not pictures, no! skeleton sketches, studies, parts of studies,

fragments of studies, a dozen dabs of the brush on each--meaningless, of

course, but his, with his cipher on them; turn out fifty a day, each to

contain some peculiarity or mannerism easily detectable as his--they're

the things that sell, you know, and are collected at fabulous prices for

the world's museums, after the great man is gone; we'll have a ton of

them ready--a ton! And all that time the rest of us will be busy

supporting the moribund, and working Paris and the dealers--preparations

for the coming event, you know; and when everything is hot and just

right, we'll spring the death on them and have the notorious funeral.

You get the idea?"

'"N-o; at least, not qu--"

'"Not quite? Don't you see? The man doesn't really die; he changes his

name and vanishes; we bury a dummy, and cry over it, with all the world

to help. And I--"

'But he wasn't allowed to finish. Everybody broke out into a rousing

hurrah of applause; and all jumped up and capered about the room and fell

on each other's necks in transports of gratitude and joy. For hours we

talked over the great plan, without ever feeling hungry; and at last,

when all the details had been arranged satisfactorily, we cast lots and

Millet was elected--elected to die, as we called it. Then we scraped

together those things which one never parts with until he is betting them

against future wealth--keepsake trinkets and suchlike--and these we

pawned for enough to furnish us a frugal farewell supper and breakfast,

and leave us a few francs over for travel, and a stake of turnips and

such for Millet to live on for a few days.

'Next morning, early, the three of us cleared out, straightway after

breakfast--on foot, of course. Each of us carried a dozen of Millet's

small pictures, purposing to market them. Carl struck for Paris, where

he would start the work of building up Millet's name against the coming

great day. Claude and I were to separate, and scatter abroad over

France.

'Now, it will surprise you to know what an easy and comfortable thing we

had. I walked two days before I began business. Then I began to sketch

a villa in the outskirts of a big town--because I saw the proprietor

standing on an upper veranda. He came down to look on--I thought he

would. I worked swiftly, intending to keep him interested. Occasionally

he fired off a little ejaculation of approbation, and by-and-by he spoke

up with enthusiasm, and said I was a master!

'I put down my brush, reached into my satchel, fetched out a Millet, and

pointed to the cipher in the corner. I said, proudly:

'"I suppose you recognise that? Well, he taught me! I should think I

ought to know my trade!"

'The man looked guiltily embarrassed, and was silent. I said

sorrowfully:

'"You don't mean to intimate that you don't know the cipher of Francois

Millet!"

'Of course he didn't know that cipher; but he was the gratefullest man

you ever saw, just the same, for being let out of an uncomfortable place

on such easy terms. He said:

'"No! Why, it is Millet's, sure enough! I don't know what I could have

been thinking of. Of course I recognise it now."

'Next, he wanted to buy it; but I said that although I wasn't rich I

wasn't that poor. However, at last, I let him have it for eight hundred

francs.'

'Eight hundred!'

'Yes. Millet would have sold it for a pork chop. Yes, I got eight

hundred francs for that little thing. I wish I could get it back for

eighty thousand. But that time's gone by. I made a very nice picture of

that man's house and I wanted to offer it to him for ten francs, but that

wouldn't answer, seeing I was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to

him for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs straight to Millet

from that town and struck out again next day.

'But I didn't walk--no. I rode. I have ridden ever since. I sold one

picture every day, and never tried to sell two. I always said to my

customer:

'"I am a fool to sell a picture of Francois Millet's at all, for that man

is not going to live three months, and when he dies his pictures can't be

had for love or money."

'I took care to spread that little fact as far as I could, and prepare

the world for the event.

'I take credit to myself for our plan of selling the pictures--it was

mine. I suggested it that last evening when we were laying out our

campaign, and all three of us agreed to give it a good fair trial before

giving it up for some other. It succeeded with all of us. I walked only

two days, Claude walked two--both of afraid to make Millet celebrated too

close to home--but Carl walked only half a day, the bright,

conscienceless rascal, and after that he travelled like a duke.

'Every now and then we got in with a country editor and started an item

around through the press; not an item announcing that a new painter had

been discovered, but an item which let on that everybody knew Francois

Millet; not an item praising him in any way, but merely a word concerning

the present condition of the "master"--sometimes hopeful, sometimes

despondent, but always tinged with fears for the worst. We always marked

these paragraphs, and sent the papers to all the people who had bought

pictures of us.

'Carl was soon in Paris and he worked things with a high hand. He made

friends with the correspondents, and got Millet's condition reported to

England and all over the continent, and America, and everywhere.

'At the end of six weeks from the start, we three met in Paris and called

a halt, and stopped sending back to Millet for additional pictures. The

boom was so high, and everything so ripe, that we saw that it would be a

mistake not to strike now, right away, without waiting any longer. So we

wrote Millet to go to bed and begin to waste away pretty fast, for we

should like him to die in ten days if he could get ready.

'Then we figured up and found that among us we had sold eighty-five small

pictures and studies, and had sixty-nine thousand francs to show for it.

Carl had made the last sale and the most brilliant one of all. He sold

the "Angelus" for twenty-two hundred francs. How we did glorify him!

--not foreseeing that a day was coming by-and-by when France would struggle

to own it and a stranger would capture it for five hundred and fifty

thousand, cash.

'We had a wind-up champagne supper that night, and next day Claude and I

packed up and went off to nurse Millet through his last days and keep

busybodies out of the house and send daily bulletins to Carl in Paris for

publication in the papers of several continents for the information of a

waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl was there in time to

help in the final mournful rites.

'You remember that great funeral, and what a stir it made all over the

globe, and how the illustrious of two worlds came to attend it and

testify their sorrow. We four--still inseparable--carried the coffin,

and would allow none to help. And we were right about that, because it

hadn't anything in it but a wax figure, and any other coffin-bearers

would have found fault with the weight. Yes, we same old four, who had

lovingly shared privation together in the old hard times now gone for

ever, carried the cof--'

'Which four?'

'We four--for Millet helped to carry his own coffin. In disguise, you

know. Disguised as a relative--distant relative.'

'Astonishing!'

'But true just the same. Well, you remember how the pictures went up.

Money? We didn't know what to do with it. There's a man in Paris to-day

who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid us two million francs for

them. And as for the bushels of sketches and studies which Millet

shovelled out during the six weeks that we were on the road, well, it

would astonish you to know the figure we sell them at nowadays--that is,

when we consent to let one go!'

'It is a wonderful history, perfectly wonderful!'

'Yes--it amounts to that.'

'Whatever became of Millet?'

'Can you keep a secret?'

'I can.'

'Do you remember the man I called your attention to in the dining room

to-day? That was Francois Millet.'

'Great--'

'Scott! Yes. For once they didn't starve a genius to death and then put

into other pockets the rewards he should have had himself. This

song-bird was not allowed to pipe out its heart unheard and then be paid

with the cold pomp of a big funeral. We looked out for that.'

MY DEBUT AS A LITERARY PERSON

In those early days I had already published one little thing ('The

Jumping Frog') in an Eastern paper, but I did not consider that that

counted. In my view, a person who published things in a mere newspaper

could not properly claim recognition as a Literary Person: he must rise

away above that; he must appear in a magazine. He would then be a

Literary Person; also, he would be famous--right away. These two

ambitions were strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared my

contribution, and then looked around for the best magazine to go up to

glory in. I selected the most important one in New York. The

contribution was accepted. I signed it 'MARK TWAIN;' for that name had

some currency on the Pacific coast, and it was my idea to spread it all

over the world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared in the

December number, and I sat up a month waiting for the January number; for

that one would contain the year's list of contributors, my name would be

in it, and I should be famous and could give the banquet I was

meditating.

I did not give the banquet. I had not written the 'MARK TWAIN'

distinctly; it was a fresh name to Eastern printers, and they put it

'Mike Swain' or 'MacSwain,' I do not remember which. At any rate, I was

not celebrated and I did not give the banquet. I was a Literary Person,

but that was all--a buried one; buried alive.

My article was about the burning of the clipper-ship 'Hornet' on the

line, May 3, 1866. There were thirty-one men on board at the time, and I

was in Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly survivors arrived there

after a voyage of forty-three days in an open boat, through the blazing

tropics, on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable trip; but it

was conducted by a captain who was a remarkable man, otherwise there

would have been no survivors. He was a New Englander of the best

sea-going stock of the old capable times--Captain Josiah Mitchell.

I was in the islands to write letters for the weekly edition of the

Sacramento 'Union,' a rich and influential daily journal which hadn't any

use for them, but could afford to spend twenty dollars a week for

nothing. The proprietors were lovable and well-beloved men: long ago

dead, no doubt, but in me there is at least one person who still holds

them in grateful remembrance; for I dearly wanted to see the islands, and

they listened to me and gave me the opportunity when there was but

slender likelihood that it could profit them in any way.

I had been in the islands several months when the survivors arrived. I

was laid up in my room at the time, and unable to walk. Here was a great

occasion to serve my journal, and I not able to take advantage of it.

Necessarily I was in deep trouble. But by good luck his Excellency Anson

Burlingame was there at the time, on his way to take up his post in

China, where he did such good work for the United States. He came and

put me on a stretcher and had me carried to the hospital where the

shipwrecked men were, and I never needed to ask a question. He attended

to all of that himself, and I had nothing to do but make the notes. It

was like him to take that trouble. He was a great man and a great

American, and it was in his fine nature to come down from his high office

and do a friendly turn whenever he could.

We got through with this work at six in the evening. I took no dinner,

for there was no time to spare if I would beat the other correspondents.

I spent four hours arranging the notes in their proper order, then wrote

all night and beyond it; with this result: that I had a very long and

detailed account of the 'Hornet' episode ready at nine in the morning,

while the other correspondents of the San Francisco journals had nothing

but a brief outline report--for they didn't sit up. The now-and-then

schooner was to sail for San Francisco about nine; when I reached the

dock she was free forward and was just casting off her stern-line. My

fat envelope was thrown by a strong hand, and fell on board all right,

and my victory was a safe thing. All in due time the ship reached San

Francisco, but it was my complete report which made the stir and was

telegraphed to the New York papers, by Mr. Cash; he was in charge of the

Pacific bureau of the 'New York Herald' at the time.

When I returned to California by-and-by, I went up to Sacramento and

presented a bill for general correspondence at twenty dollars a week. It

was paid. Then I presented a bill for 'special' service on the 'Hornet'

matter of three columns of solid nonpareil at a hundred dollars a column.

The cashier didn't faint, but he came rather near it. He sent for the

proprietors, and they came and never uttered a protest. They only

laughed in their jolly fashion, and said it was robbery, but no matter;

it was a grand 'scoop' (the bill or my 'Hornet' report, I didn't know

which): 'Pay it. It's all right.' The best men that ever owned a

newspaper.

The 'Hornet' survivors reached the Sandwich Islands the 15th of June.

They were mere skinny skeletons; their clothes hung limp about them and

fitted them no better than a flag fits the flag-staff in a calm. But

they were well nursed in the hospital; the people of Honolulu kept them

supplied with all the dainties they could need; they gathered strength

fast, and were presently nearly as good as new. Within a fortnight the

most of them took ship for San Francisco; that is, if my dates have not

gone astray in my memory. I went in the same ship, a sailing-vessel.

Captain Mitchell of the 'Hornet' was along; also the only passengers the

'Hornet' had carried. These were two young men from Stamford,

Connecticut--brothers: Samuel and Henry Ferguson. The 'Hornet' was a

clipper of the first class and a fast sailer; the young men's quarters

were roomy and comfortable, and were well stocked with books, and also

with canned meats and fruits to help out the ship-fare with; and when the

ship cleared from New York harbour in the first week of January there was

promise that she would make quick and pleasant work of the fourteen or

fifteen thousand miles in front of her. As soon as the cold latitudes

were left behind and the vessel entered summer weather, the voyage became

a holiday picnic. The ship flew southward under a cloud of sail which

needed no attention, no modifying or change of any kind, for days

together. The young men read, strolled the ample deck, rested and

drowsed in the shade of the canvas, took their meals with the captain;

and when the day was done they played dummy whist with him till bed-time.

After the snow and ice and tempests of the Horn, the ship bowled

northward into summer weather again, and the trip was a picnic once more.

Until the early morning of the 3rd of May. Computed position of the ship

112 degrees 10 minutes longitude, latitude 2 degrees above the equator;

no wind, no sea--dead calm; temperature of the atmosphere, tropical,

blistering, unimaginable by one who has not been roasted in it. There

was a cry of fire. An unfaithful sailor had disobeyed the rules and gone

into the booby-hatch with an open light to draw some varnish from a cask.

The proper result followed, and the vessel's hours were numbered.

There was not much time to spare, but the captain made the most of it.

The three boats were launched--long-boat and two quarter-boats. That the

time was very short and the hurry and excitement considerable is

indicated by the fact that in launching the boats a hole was stove in the

side of one of them by some sort of collision, and an oar driven through

the side of another. The captain's first care was to have four sick

sailors brought up and placed on deck out of harm's way--among them a

'Portyghee.' This man had not done a day's work on the voyage, but had

lain in his hammock four months nursing an abscess. When we were taking

notes in the Honolulu hospital and a sailor told this to Mr. Burlingame,

the third mate, who was lying near, raised his head with an effort, and

in a weak voice made this correction--with solemnity and feeling:

'Raising abscesses! He had a family of them. He done it to keep from

standing his watch.'

Any provisions that lay handy were gathered up by the men and two

passengers and brought and dumped on the deck where the 'Portyghee' lay;

then they ran for more. The sailor who was telling this to Mr.

Burlingame added:

'We pulled together thirty-two days' rations for the thirty-one men that

way.'

The third mate lifted his head again and made another correction--with

bitterness:

'The "Portyghee" et twenty-two of them while he was soldiering there and

nobody noticing. A damned hound.'

The fire spread with great rapidity. The smoke and flame drove the men

back, and they had to stop their incomplete work of fetching provisions,

and take to the boats with only ten days' rations secured.

Each boat had a compass, a quadrant, a copy of Bowditch's 'Navigator,'

and a Nautical Almanac, and the captain's and chief mate's boats had

chronometers. There were thirty-one men all told. The captain took an

account of stock, with the following result: four hams, nearly thirty

pounds of salt pork, half-box of raisins, one hundred pounds of bread,

twelve two-pound cans of oysters, clams, and assorted meats, a keg

containing four pounds of butter, twelve gallons of water in a

forty-gallon 'scuttle-butt', four one-gallon demijohns full of water,

three bottles of brandy (the property of passengers), some pipes,

matches, and a hundred pounds of tobacco. No medicines. Of course

the whole party had to go on short rations at once.

The captain and the two passengers kept diaries. On our voyage to San

Francisco we ran into a calm in the middle of the Pacific, and did not

move a rod during fourteen days; this gave me a chance to copy the

diaries. Samuel Ferguson's is the fullest; I will draw upon it now.

When the following paragraph was written the doomed ship was about one

hundred and twenty days out from port, and all hands were putting in the

lazy time about as usual, as no one was forecasting disaster.

[Diary entry] May 2. Latitude 1 degree 28 minutes N., longitude 111

degrees 38 minutes W. Another hot and sluggish day; at one time,

however, the clouds promised wind, and there came a slight breeze

--just enough to keep us going. The only thing to chronicle to-day

is the quantities of fish about; nine bonitos were caught this

forenoon, and some large albacores seen. After dinner the first

mate hooked a fellow which he could not hold, so he let the line go

to the captain, who was on the bow. He, holding on, brought the

fish to with a jerk, and snap went the line, hook and all. We also

saw astern, swimming lazily after us, an enormous shark, which must

have been nine or ten feet long. We tried him with all sorts of

lines and a piece of pork, but he declined to take hold. I suppose

he had appeased his appetite on the heads and other remains of the

bonitos we had thrown overboard.

Next day's entry records the disaster. The three boats got away, retired

to a short distance, and stopped. The two injured ones were leaking

badly; some of the men were kept busy baling, others patched the holes as

well as they could. The captain, the two passengers, and eleven men were

in the long-boat, with a share of the provisions and water, and with no

room to spare, for the boat was only twenty-one feet long, six wide, and

three deep. The chief mate and eight men were in one of the small boats,

the second mate and seven men in the other. The passengers had saved no

clothing but what they had on, excepting their overcoats. The ship,

clothed in flame and sending up a vast column of black smoke into the

sky, made a grand picture in the solitudes of the sea, and hour after

hour the outcasts sat and watched it. Meantime the captain ciphered on

the immensity of the distance that stretched between him and the nearest

available land, and then scaled the rations down to meet the emergency;

half a biscuit for dinner; one biscuit and some canned meat for dinner;

half a biscuit for tea; a few swallows of water for each meal. And so

hunger began to gnaw while the ship was still burning.

[Diary entry] May 4. The ship burned all night very brightly, and

hopes are that some ship has seen the light and is bearing down upon

us. None seen, however, this forenoon, so we have determined to go

together north and a little west to some islands in 18 degrees or 19

degrees north latitude and 114 degrees to 115 degrees west

longitude, hoping in the meantime to be picked up by some ship. The

ship sank suddenly at about 5 A.M. We find the sun very hot and

scorching, but all try to keep out of it as much as we can.

They did a quite natural thing now: waited several hours for that

possible ship that might have seen the light to work her slow way to them

through the nearly dead calm. Then they gave it up and set about their

plans. If you will look at the map you will say that their course could

be easily decided. Albemarle Island (Galapagos group) lies straight

eastward nearly a thousand miles; the islands referred to in the diary as

'some islands' (Revillagigedo Islands) lie, as they think, in some widely

uncertain region northward about one thousand miles and westward one

hundred or one hundred and fifty miles. Acapulco, on the Mexican coast,

lies about north-east something short of one thousand miles. You will

say random rocks in the ocean are not what is wanted; let them strike for

Acapulco and the solid continent. That does look like the rational

course, but one presently guesses from the diaries that the thing would

have been wholly irrational--indeed, suicidal. If the boats struck for

Albemarle they would be in the doldrums all the way; and that means a

watery perdition, with winds which are wholly crazy, and blow from all

points of the compass at once and also perpendicularly. If the boats

tried for Acapulco they would get out of the doldrums when half-way

there--in case they ever got half-way--and then they would be in

lamentable case, for there they would meet the north-east trades coming

down in their teeth, and these boats were so rigged that they could not

sail within eight points of the wind. So they wisely started northward,

with a slight slant to the west. They had but ten days' short allowance

of food; the long-boat was towing the others; they could not depend on

making any sort of definite progress in the doldrums, and they had four

or five hundred miles of doldrums in front of them yet. They are the

real equator, a tossing, roaring, rainy belt, ten or twelve hundred miles

broad, which girdles the globe.

It rained hard the first night and all got drenched, but they filled up

their water-butt. The brothers were in the stern with the captain, who

steered. The quarters were cramped; no one got much sleep. 'Kept on our

course till squalls headed us off.'

Stormy and squally the next morning, with drenching rains. A heavy and

dangerous 'cobbling' sea. One marvels how such boats could live in it.

Is it called a feat of desperate daring when one man and a dog cross the

Atlantic in a boat the size of a long-boat, and indeed it is; but this

long-boat was overloaded with men and other plunder, and was only three

feet deep. 'We naturally thought often of all at home, and were glad to

remember that it was Sacrament Sunday, and that prayers would go up from

our friends for us, although they know not our peril.'

The captain got not even a cat-nap during the first three days and

nights, but he got a few winks of sleep the fourth night. 'The worst sea

yet.' About ten at night the captain changed his course and headed

east-north-east, hoping to make Clipperton Rock. If he failed, no

matter; he would be in a better position to make those other islands. I

will mention here that he did not find that rock.

On May 8 no wind all day; sun blistering hot; they take to the oars.

Plenty of dolphins, but they couldn't catch any. 'I think we are all

beginning to realise more and more the awful situation we are in.' 'It

often takes a ship a week to get through the doldrums; how much longer,

then, such a craft as ours?' 'We are so crowded that we cannot stretch

ourselves out for a good sleep, but have to take it any way we can get

it.'

Of course this feature will grow more and more trying, but it will be

human nature to cease to set it down; there will be five weeks of it yet

--we must try to remember that for the diarist; it will make our beds the

softer.

May 9 the sun gives him a warning: 'Looking with both eyes, the horizon

crossed thus +.' 'Henry keeps well, but broods over our troubles more

than I wish he did.' They caught two dolphins; they tasted well. 'The

captain believed the compass out of the way, but the long-invisible north

star came out--a welcome sight--and endorsed the compass.'

May 10, 'latitude 7 degrees 0 minutes 3 seconds N., longitude 111 degrees

32 minutes W.' So they have made about three hundred miles of northing

in the six days since they left the region of the lost ship. 'Drifting

in calms all day.' And baking hot, of course; I have been down there,

and I remember that detail. 'Even as the captain says, all romance has

long since vanished, and I think the most of us are beginning to look the

fact of our awful situation full in the face.' 'We are making but little

headway on our course.' Bad news from the rearmost boat: the men are

improvident; 'they have eaten up all of the canned meats brought from the

ship, and are now growing discontented.' Not so with the chief mate's

people--they are evidently under the eye of a man.

Under date of May 11: 'Standing still! or worse; we lost more last night

than we made yesterday.' In fact, they have lost three miles of the

three hundred of northing they had so laboriously made. 'The cock that

was rescued and pitched into the boat while the ship was on fire still

lives, and crows with the breaking of dawn, cheering us a good deal.'

What has he been living on for a week? Did the starving men feed him

from their dire poverty? 'The second mate's boat out of water again,

showing that they over-drink their allowance. The captain spoke pretty

sharply to them.' It is true: I have the remark in my old note-book; I

got it of the third mate in the hospital at Honolulu. But there is not

room for it here, and it is too combustible, anyway. Besides, the third

mate admired it, and what he admired he was likely to enhance.

They were still watching hopefully for ships. The captain was a

thoughtful man, and probably did not disclose on them that that was

substantially a waste of time. 'In this latitude the horizon is filled

with little upright clouds that look very much like ships.' Mr. Ferguson

saved three bottles of brandy from his private stores when he left the

ship, and the liquor came good in these days. 'The captain serves out

two tablespoonfuls of brandy and water--half and half--to our crew.' He

means the watch that is on duty; they stood regular watches--four hours

on and four off. The chief mate was an excellent officer--a

self-possessed, resolute, fine, all-round man. The diarist makes the

following note--there is character in it: 'I offered one bottle of brandy

to the chief mate, but he declined, saying he could keep the after-boat

quiet, and we had not enough for all.'

HENRY FERGUSON'S DIARY TO DATE, GIVEN IN FULL:

May 4, 5, 6, doldrums. May 7, 8, 9, doldrums. May 10, 11, 12,

doldrums. Tells it all. Never saw, never felt, never heard, never

experienced such heat, such darkness, such lightning and thunder,

and wind and rain, in my life before.

That boy's diary is of the economical sort that a person might properly

be expected to keep in such circumstances--and be forgiven for the

economy, too. His brother, perishing of consumption, hunger, thirst,

blazing heat, drowning rains, loss of sleep, lack of exercise, was

persistently faithful and circumstantial with his diary from the first

day to the last--an instance of noteworthy fidelity and resolution. In

spite of the tossing and plunging boat he wrote it close and fine, in a

hand as easy to read as print. They can't seem to get north of 7 degrees

N.; they are still there the next day:

[Diary entry] May 12. A good rain last night, and we caught a good

deal, though not enough to fill up our tank, pails, &c. Our object

is to get out of these doldrums, but it seems as if we cannot do it.

To-day we have had it very variable, and hope we are on the northern

edge, thought we are not much above 7 degrees. This morning we all

thought we had made out a sail; but it was one of those deceiving

clouds. Rained a good deal to-day, making all hands wet and

uncomfortable; we filled up pretty nearly all our water-pots,

however. I hope we may have a fine night, for the captain certainly

wants rest, and while there is any danger of squalls, or danger of

any kind, he is always on hand. I never would have believed that

open boats such as ours, with their loads, could live in some of the

seas we have had.

During the night, 12th-13th, 'the cry of A SHIP! brought us to our feet.'

It seemed to be the glimmer of a vessel's signal-lantern rising out of

the curve of the sea. There was a season of breathless hope while they

stood watching, with their hands shading their eyes, and their hearts in

their throats; then the promise failed: the light was a rising star. It

is a long time ago--thirty-two years--and it doesn't matter now, yet one

is sorry for their disappointment. 'Thought often of those at home

to-day, and of the disappointment they will feel next Sunday at not

hearing from us by telegraph from San Francisco.' It will be many weeks

yet before the telegram is received, and it will come as a thunderclap of

joy then, and with the seeming of a miracle, for it will raise from the

grave men mourned as dead. 'To-day our rations were reduced to a quarter

of a biscuit a meal, with about half a pint of water.' This is on May

13, with more than a month of voyaging in front of them yet! However, as

they do not know that, 'we are all feeling pretty cheerful.'

In the afternoon of the 14th there was a thunderstorm, 'which toward

night seemed to close in around us on every side, making it very dark and

squally.' 'Our situation is becoming more and more desperate,' for they

were making very little northing 'and every day diminishes our small

stock of provisions.' They realise that the boats must soon separate,

and each fight for its own life. Towing the quarter-boats is a hindering

business.

That night and next day, light and baffling winds and but little

progress. Hard to bear, that persistent standing still, and the food

wasting away. 'Everything in a perfect sop; and all so cramped, and no

change of clothes.' Soon the sun comes out and roasts them. 'Joe caught

another dolphin to-day; in his maw we found a flying-fish and two

skipjacks.' There is an event, now, which rouses an enthusiasm of hope:

a land-bird arrives! It rests on the yard for awhile, and they can look

at it all they like, and envy it, and thank it for its message. As a

subject of talk it is beyond price--a fresh new topic for tongues tired

to death of talking upon a single theme: Shall we ever see the land

again; and when? Is the bird from Clipperton Rock? They hope so; and

they take heart of grace to believe so. As it turned out the bird had no

message; it merely came to mock.

May 16, 'the cock still lives, and daily carols forth his praise.' It

will be a rainy night, 'but I do not care if we can fill up our

water-butts.'

On the 17th one of those majestic spectres of the deep, a water-spout,

stalked by them, and they trembled for their lives. Young Henry set it

down in his scanty journal with the judicious comment that 'it might have

been a fine sight from a ship.'

From Captain Mitchell's log for this day: 'Only half a bushel of

bread-crumbs left.' (And a month to wander the seas yet.')

It rained all night and all day; everybody uncomfortable. Now came a

sword-fish chasing a bonito; and the poor thing, seeking help and

friends, took refuge under the rudder. The big sword-fish kept hovering

around, scaring everybody badly. The men's mouths watered for him, for

he would have made a whole banquet; but no one dared to touch him, of

course, for he would sink a boat promptly if molested. Providence

protected the poor bonito from the cruel sword-fish. This was just and

right. Providence next befriended the shipwrecked sailors: they got the

bonito. This was also just and right. But in the distribution of

mercies the sword-fish himself got overlooked. He now went away; to muse

over these subtleties, probably. The men in all the boats seem pretty

well; the feeblest of the sick ones (not able for a long time to stand

his watch on board the ship) 'is wonderfully recovered.' This is the

third mate's detected 'Portyghee' that raised the family of abscesses.

Passed a most awful night. Rained hard nearly all the time, and

blew in squalls, accompanied by terrific thunder and lightning from

all points of the compass.--Henry's Log.

Most awful night I ever witnessed.--Captain's Log.

Latitude, May 18, 11 degrees 11 minutes. So they have averaged but forty

miles of northing a day during the fortnight. Further talk of

separating. 'Too bad, but it must be done for the safety of the whole.'

'At first I never dreamed, but now hardly shut my eyes for a cat-nap

without conjuring up something or other--to be accounted for by weakness,

I suppose.' But for their disaster they think they would be arriving in

San Francisco about this time. 'I should have liked to send B---the

telegram for her birthday.' This was a young sister.

On the 19th the captain called up the quarter-boats and said one would

have to go off on its own hook. The long-boat could no longer tow both

of them. The second mate refused to go, but the chief mate was ready; in

fact, he was always ready when there was a man's work to the fore. He

took the second mate's boat; six of its crew elected to remain, and two

of his own crew came with him (nine in the boat, now, including himself).

He sailed away, and toward sunset passed out of sight. The diarist was

sorry to see him go. It was natural; one could have better spared the

'Portyghee.' After thirty-two years I find my prejudice against this

'Portyghee' reviving. His very looks have long passed out of my memory;

but no matter, I am coming to hate him as religiously as ever. 'Water

will now be a scarce article, for as we get out of the doldrums we shall

get showers only now and then in the trades. This life is telling

severely on my strength. Henry holds out first-rate.' Henry did not

start well, but under hardships he improved straight along.

Latitude, Sunday, May 20, 12 degrees 0 minutes 9 seconds. They ought to

be well out of the doldrums now, but they are not. No breeze--the

longed-for trades still missing. They are still anxiously watching for a

sail, but they have only 'visions of ships that come to naught--the

shadow without the substance.' The second mate catches a booby this

afternoon, a bird which consists mainly of feathers; 'but as they have no

other meat, it will go well.'

May 21, they strike the trades at last! The second mate catches three

more boobies, and gives the long-boat one. Dinner 'half a can of

mincemeat divided up and served around, which strengthened us somewhat.'

They have to keep a man bailing all the time; the hole knocked in the

boat when she was launched from the burning ship was never efficiently

mended. 'Heading about north-west now.' They hope they have easting

enough to make some of these indefinite isles. Failing that, they think

they will be in a better position to be picked up. It was an infinitely

slender chance, but the captain probably refrained from mentioning that.

The next day is to be an eventful one.

[Diary entry] May 22. Last night wind headed us off, so that part

of the time we had to steer east-south-east and then

west-north-west, and so on. This morning we were all startled by a

cry of 'SAIL HO!' Sure enough, we could see it! And for a time we

cut adrift from the second mate's boat, and steered so as to

attract its attention. This was about half-past five A.M. After

sailing in a state of high excitement for almost twenty minutes we

made it out to be the chief mate's boat. Of course we were glad to

see them and have them report all well; but still it was a bitter

disappointment to us all. Now that we are in the trades it seems

impossible to make northing enough to strike the isles. We have

determined to do the best we can, and get in the route of vessels.

Such being the determination, it became necessary to cast off the

other boat, which, after a good deal of unpleasantness, was done,

we again dividing water and stores, and taking Cox into our boat.

This makes our number fifteen. The second mate's crew wanted to

all get in with us, and cast the other boat adrift. It was a very

painful separation.

So these isles that they have struggled for so long and so hopefully have

to be given up. What with lying birds that come to mock, and isles that

are but a dream, and 'visions of ships that come to naught,' it is a

pathetic time they are having, with much heartbreak in it. It was odd

that the vanished boat, three days lost to sight in that vast solitude,

should appear again. But it brought Cox--we can't be certain why. But

if it hadn't, the diarist would never have seen the land again.

[Diary entry] Our chances as we go west increase in regard to being

picked up, but each day our scanty fare is so much reduced. Without

the fish, turtle, and birds sent us, I do not know how we should

have got along. The other day I offered to read prayers morning and

evening for the captain, and last night commenced. The men,

although of various nationalities and religions, are very attentive,

and always uncovered. May God grant my weak endeavour its issue!

Latitude, May 24, 14 degrees 18 minutes N. Five oysters apiece for

dinner and three spoonfuls of juice, a gill of water, and a piece of

biscuit the size of a silver dollar. 'We are plainly getting

weaker--God have mercy upon us all!' That night heavy seas break

over the weather side and make everybody wet and uncomfortable

besides requiring constant baling.

Next day 'nothing particular happened.' Perhaps some of us would have

regarded it differently. 'Passed a spar, but not near enough to see what

it was.' They saw some whales blow; there were flying-fish skimming the

seas, but none came aboard. Misty weather, with fine rain, very

penetrating.

Latitude, May 26, 15 degrees 50 minutes. They caught a flying-fish and a

booby, but had to eat them raw. 'The men grow weaker, and, I think,

despondent; they say very little, though.' And so, to all the other

imaginable and unimaginable horrors, silence is added--the muteness and

brooding of coming despair. 'It seems our best chance to get in the

track of ships with the hope that some one will run near enough to our

speck to see it.' He hopes the other boards stood west and have been

picked up. (They will never be heard of again in this world.)

[Diary entry] Sunday, May 27, Latitude 16 degrees 0 minutes 5

seconds; longitude, by chronometer, 117 degrees 22 minutes. Our

fourth Sunday! When we left the ship we reckoned on having about

ten days' supplies, and now we hope to be able, by rigid economy, to

make them last another week if possible.[1] Last night the sea was

comparatively quiet, but the wind headed us off to about

west-north-west, which has been about our course all day to-day.

Another flying-fish came aboard last night, and one more to-day

--both small ones. No birds. A booby is a great catch, and a good

large one makes a small dinner for the fifteen of us--that is, of

course, as dinners go in the 'Hornet's' long-boat. Tried this

morning to read the full service to myself, with the Communion, but

found it too much; am too weak, and get sleepy, and cannot give

strict attention; so I put off half till this afternoon. I trust

God will hear the prayers gone up for us at home to-day, and

graciously answer them by sending us succour and help in this our

season of deep distress.

The next day was 'a good day for seeing a ship.' But none was seen. The

diarist 'still feels pretty well,' though very weak; his brother Henry

'bears up and keeps his strength the best of any on board.' 'I do not

feel despondent at all, for I fully trust that the Almighty will hear our

and the home prayers, and He who suffers not a sparrow to fall sees and

cares for us, His creatures.'

Considering the situation and circumstances, the record for next day,

May 29, is one which has a surprise in it for those dull people who think

that nothing but medicines and doctors can cure the sick. A little

starvation can really do more for the average sick man than can the best

medicines and the best doctors. I do not mean a restricted diet; I mean

total abstention from food for one or two days. I speak from experience;

starvation has been my cold and fever doctor for fifteen years, and has

accomplished a cure in all instances. The third mate told me in Honolulu

that the 'Portyghee' had lain in his hammock for months, raising his

family of abscesses and feeding like a cannibal. We have seen that in

spite of dreadful weather, deprivation of sleep, scorching, drenching,

and all manner of miseries, thirteen days of starvation 'wonderfully

recovered' him. There were four sailors down sick when the ship was

burned. Twenty-five days of pitiless starvation have followed, and now

we have this curious record: 'All the men are hearty and strong; even the

ones that were down sick are well, except poor Peter.' When I wrote an

article some months ago urging temporary abstention from food as a remedy

for an inactive appetite and for disease, I was accused of jesting, but I

was in earnest. 'We are all wonderfully well and strong, comparatively

speaking.' On this day the starvation regime drew its belt a couple of

buckle-holes tighter: the bread ration was reduced from the usual piece

of cracker the size of a silver dollar to the half of that, and one meal

was abolished from the daily three. This will weaken the men physically,

but if there are any diseases of an ordinary sort left in them they will

disappear.

Two quarts bread-crumbs left, one-third of a ham, three small cans

of oysters, and twenty gallons of water.--Captain's Log.

The hopeful tone of the diaries is persistent. It is remarkable. Look

at the map and see where the boat is: latitude 16 degrees 44 minutes,

longitude 119 degrees 20 minutes. It is more than two hundred miles west

of the Revillagigedo Islands, so they are quite out of the question

against the trades, rigged as this boat is. The nearest land available

for such a boat is the American group, six hundred and fifty miles away,

westward; still, there is no note of surrender, none even of

discouragement! Yet, May 30, 'we have now left: one can of oysters;

three pounds of raisins; one can of soup; one-third of a ham; three pints

of biscuit-crumbs.'

And fifteen starved men to live on it while they creep and crawl six

hundred and fifty miles. 'Somehow I feel much encouraged by this change

of course (west by north) which we have made to-day.' Six hundred and

fifty miles on a hatful of provisions. Let us be thankful, even after

thirty-two years, that they are mercifully ignorant of the fact that it

isn't six hundred and fifty that they must creep on the hatful, but

twenty-two hundred!

Isn't the situation romantic enough just as it stands? No. Providence

added a startling detail: pulling an oar in that boat, for common

seaman's wages, was a banished duke--Danish. We hear no more of him;

just that mention, that is all, with the simple remark added that 'he is

one of our best men'--a high enough compliment for a duke or any other

man in those manhood-testing circumstances. With that little glimpse of

him at his oar, and that fine word of praise, he vanishes out of our

knowledge for all time. For all time, unless he should chance upon this

note and reveal himself.

The last day of May is come. And now there is a disaster to report:

think of it, reflect upon it, and try to understand how much it means,

when you sit down with your family and pass your eye over your

breakfast-table. Yesterday there were three pints of bread-crumbs; this

morning the little bag is found open and some of the crumbs are missing.

'We dislike to suspect any one of such a rascally act, but there is no

question that this grave crime has been committed. Two days will

certainly finish the remaining morsels. God grant us strength to reach

the American group!' The third mate told me in Honolulu that in these

days the men remembered with bitterness that the 'Portyghee' had devoured

twenty-two days' rations while he lay waiting to be transferred from the

burning ship, and that now they cursed him and swore an oath that if it

came to cannibalism he should be the first to suffer for the rest.

[Diary entry] The captain has lost his glasses, and therefore he

cannot read our pocket prayer-books as much as I think he would

like, though he is not familiar with them.

Further of the captain: 'He is a good man, and has been most kind to us

--almost fatherly. He says that if he had been offered the command of the

ship sooner he should have brought his two daughters with him.' It makes

one shudder yet to think how narrow an escape it was.

The two meals (rations) a day are as follows: fourteen raisins and a

piece of cracker the size of a penny for tea; a gill of water, and a

piece of ham and a piece of bread, each the size of a penny, for

breakfast.--Captain's Log.

He means a penny in thickness as well as in circumference. Samuel

Ferguson's diary says the ham was shaved 'about as thin as it could be

cut.'

[Diary entry] June 1. Last night and to-day sea very high and

cobbling, breaking over and making us all wet and cold. Weather

squally, and there is no doubt that only careful management--with

God's protecting care--preserved us through both the night and the

day; and really it is most marvellous how every morsel that passes

our lips is blessed to us. It makes me think daily of the miracle

of the loaves and fishes. Henry keeps up wonderfully, which is a

great consolation to me. I somehow have great confidence, and hope

that our afflictions will soon be ended, though we are running

rapidly across the track of both outward and inward bound vessels,

and away from them; our chief hope is a whaler, man-of-war, or some

Australian ship. The isles we are steering for are put down in

Bowditch, but on my map are said to be doubtful. God grant they may

be there!

Hardest day yet.--Captain's Log.

Doubtful! It was worse than that. A week later they sailed straight

over them.

[Diary entry] June 2. Latitude 18 degrees 9 minutes. Squally,

cloudy, a heavy sea.... I cannot help thinking of the cheerful and

comfortable time we had aboard the 'Hornet.'

Two days' scanty supplies left--ten rations of water apiece and a

little morsel of bread. BUT THE SUN SHINES AND GOD IS MERCIFUL.

--Captain's Log.

[Diary entry] Sunday, June 3. Latitude 17 degrees 54 minutes.

Heavy sea all night, and from 4 A.M. very wet, the sea breaking

over us in frequent sluices, and soaking everything aft,

particularly. All day the sea has been very high, and it is a

wonder that we are not swamped. Heaven grant that it may go down

this evening! Our suspense and condition are getting terrible. I

managed this morning to crawl, more than step, to the forward end of

the boat, and was surprised to find that I was so weak, especially

in the legs and knees. The sun has been out again, and I have dried

some things, and hope for a better night.

June 4. Latitude 17 degrees 6 minutes, longitude 131 degrees 30

minutes. Shipped hardly any seas last night, and to-day the sea has

gone down somewhat, although it is still too high for comfort, as we

have an occasional reminder that water is wet. The sun has been out

all day, and so we have had a good drying. I have been trying for

the last ten or twelve days to get a pair of drawers dry enough to

put on, and to-day at last succeeded. I mention this to show the

state in which we have lived. If our chronometer is anywhere near

right, we ought to see the American Isles to-morrow or next day. If

there are not there, we have only the chance, for a few days, of a

stray ship, for we cannot eke out the provisions more than five or

six days longer, and our strength is failing very fast. I was much

surprised to-day to note how my legs have wasted away above my

knees: they are hardly thicker than my upper arm used to be. Still,

I trust in God's infinite mercy, and feel sure he will do what is

best for us. To survive, as we have done, thirty-two days in an

open boat, with only about ten days' fair provisions for thirty-one

men in the first place, and these divided twice subsequently, is

more than mere unassisted HUMAN art and strength could have

accomplished and endured.

Bread and raisins all gone.--Captain's Log.

Men growing dreadfully discontented, and awful grumbling and

unpleasant talk is arising. God save us from all strife of men; and

if we must die now, take us himself, and not embitter our bitter

death still more.--Henry's Log.

[Diary entry] June 5. Quiet night and pretty comfortable day,

though our sail and block show signs of failing, and need taking

down--which latter is something of a job, as it requires the

climbing of the mast. We also had news from forward, there being

discontent and some threatening complaints of unfair allowances,

etc., all as unreasonable as foolish; still, these things bid us be

on our guard. I am getting miserably weak, but try to keep up the

best I can. If we cannot find those isles we can only try to make

north-west and get in the track of Sandwich Island-bound vessels,

living as best we can in the meantime. To-day we changed to one

meal, and that at about noon, with a small ration or water at 8 or 9

A.M., another at 12 A.M., and a third at 5 or 6 P.M.

Nothing left but a little piece of ham and a gill of water, all

around.--Captain's Log.

They are down to one meal a day now--such as it is--and fifteen hundred

miles to crawl yet! And now the horrors deepen, and, though they escaped

actual mutiny, the attitude of the men became alarming. Now we seem to

see why that curious incident happened, so long ago; I mean Cox's return,

after he had been far away and out of sight several days in the chief

mate's boat. If he had not come back the captain and the two young

passengers might have been slain, now, by these sailors, who were

becoming crazed through their sufferings.

NOTE SECRETLY PASSED BY HENRY TO HIS BROTHER:

Cox told me last night that there is getting to be a good deal of

ugly talk among the men against the captain and us aft. They say

that the captain is the cause of all; that he did not try to save

the ship at all, nor to get provisions, and that even would not let

the men put in some they had; and that partiality is shown us in

apportioning our rations aft.... asked Cox the other day if he

would starve first or eat human flesh. Cox answered he would

starve.... then told him he would only be killing himself. If we

do not find those islands we would do well to prepare for anything.

.... is the loudest of all.

REPLY:

We can depend on ..., I think, and ..., and Cox, can we not?

SECOND NOTE:

I guess so, and very likely on ...; but there is no telling .... and

Cox are certain. There is nothing definite said or hinted as yet,

as I understand Cox; but starving men are the same as maniacs. It

would be well to keep a watch on your pistol, so as to have it and

the cartridges safe from theft.

Henry's Log, June 5. Dreadful forebodings. God spare us from all

such horrors! Some of the men getting to talk a good deal. Nothing

to write down. Heart very sad.

Henry's Log, June 6. Passed some sea-weed and something that looked

like the trunk of an old tree, but no birds; beginning to be afraid

islands not there. To-day it was said to the captain, in the

hearing of all, that some of the men would not shrink, when a man

was dead, from using the flesh, though they would not kill.

Horrible! God give us all full use of our reason, and spare us from

such things! 'From plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and

murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us!'

[Diary entry] June 6. Latitude 16 degrees 30 minutes, longitude

(chron.) 134 degrees. Dry night and wind steady enough to require

no change in sail; but this A.M. an attempt to lower it proved

abortive. First the third mate tried and got up to the block, and

fastened a temporary arrangement to reeve the halyards through, but

had to come down, weak and almost fainting, before finishing; then

Joe tried, and after twice ascending, fixed it and brought down the

block; but it was very exhausting work, and afterward he was good

for nothing all day. The clue-iron which we are trying to make

serve for the broken block works, however, very indifferently, and

will, I am afraid, soon cut the rope. It is very necessary to get

everything connected with the sail in good easy running order before

we get too weak to do anything with it.

Only three meals left.--Captain's Log.

[Diary entry] June 7. Latitude 16 degrees 35 minutes N., longitude

136 degrees 30 minutes W. Night wet and uncomfortable. To-day

shows us pretty conclusively that the American Isles are not there,

though we have had some signs that looked like them. At noon we

decided to abandon looking any farther for them, and to-night haul a

little more northerly, so as to get in the way of Sandwich Island

vessels, which fortunately come down pretty well this way--say to

latitude 19 degrees to 20 degrees to get the benefit of the

trade-winds. Of course all the westing we have made is gain, and I

hope the chronometer is wrong in our favour, for I do not see how

any such delicate instrument can keep good time with the constant

jarring and thumping we get from the sea. With the strong trade we

have, I hope that a week from Sunday will put us in sight of the

Sandwich Islands, if we are not safe by that time by being picked

up.

It is twelve hundred miles to the Sandwich Islands; the provisions are

virtually exhausted, but not the perishing diarist's pluck.

[Diary entry] My cough troubled me a good deal last night, and

therefore I got hardly any sleep at all. Still, I make out pretty

well, and should not complain. Yesterday the third mate mended the

block, and this P.M. the sail, after some difficulty, was got down,

and Harry got to the top of the mast and rove the halyards through

after some hardship, so that it now works easy and well. This

getting up the mast is no easy matter at any time with the sea we

have, and is very exhausting in our present state. We could only

reward Harry by an extra ration of water. We have made good time

and course to-day. Heading her up, however, makes the boat ship

seas and keeps us all wet; however, it cannot be helped. Writing is

a rather precarious thing these times. Our meal to-day for the

fifteen consists of half a can of 'soup and boullie'; the other half

is reserved for to-morrow. Henry still keeps up grandly, and is a

great favourite. God grant he may be spared.

A better feeling prevails among the men.--Captain's Log.

[Diary entry] June 9. Latitude 17 degrees 53 minutes. Finished

to-day, I may say, our whole stack of provisions.[2] We have only

left a lower end of a ham-bone, with some of the outer rind and

skin on. In regard to the water, however, I think we have got ten

days' supply at our present rate of allowance. This, with what

nourishment we can get from boot-legs and such chewable matter, we

hope will enable us to weather it out till we get to the Sandwich

Islands, or, sailing in the meantime in the track of vessels

thither bound, be picked up. My hope is in the latter, for in all

human probability I cannot stand the other. Still, we have been

marvellously protected, and God, I hope, will preserve us all in

His own good time and way. The men are getting weaker, but are

still quiet and orderly.

[Diary entry] Sunday, June 10. Latitude 18 degrees 40 minutes,

longitude 142 degrees 34 minutes. A pretty good night last night,

with some wettings, and again another beautiful Sunday. I cannot

but think how we should all enjoy it at home, and what a contrast is

here! How terrible their suspense must begin to be! God grant that

it may be relieved before very long, and He certainly seems to be

with us in everything we do, and has preserved this boat

miraculously; for since we left the ship we have sailed considerably

over three thousand miles, which, taking into consideration our

meagre stock of provisions, is almost unprecedented. As yet I do

not feel the stint of food so much as I do that of water. Even

Henry, who is naturally a good water-drinker, can save half of his

allowance from time to time, when I cannot. My diseased throat may

have something to do with that, however.

Nothing is now left which by any flattery can be called food. But they

must manage somehow for five days more, for at noon they have still eight

hundred miles to go. It is a race for life now.

This is no time for comments or other interruptions from me--every moment

is valuable. I will take up the boy brother's diary at this point, and

clear the seas before it and let it fly.

HENRY FERGUSON'S LOG:

Sunday, June 10. Our ham-bone has given us a taste of food to-day,

and we have got left a little meat and the remainder of the bone for

tomorrow. Certainly, never was there such a sweet knuckle-one, or

one that was so thoroughly appreciated .... I do not know that I

feel any worse than I did last Sunday, notwithstanding the reduction

of diet; and I trust that we may all have strength given us to

sustain the sufferings and hardships of the coming week. We

estimate that we are within seven hundred miles of the Sandwich

Islands, and that our average, daily, is somewhat over a hundred

miles, so that our hopes have some foundation in reason. Heaven

send we may all live to see land!

June 11. Ate the meat and rind of our ham-bone, and have the bone

and the greasy cloth from around the ham left to eat to-morrow. God

send us birds or fish, and let us not perish of hunger, or be

brought to the dreadful alternative of feeding on human flesh! As I

feel now, I do not think anything could persuade me; but you cannot

tell what you will do when you are reduced by hunger and your mind

wandering. I hope and pray we can make out to reach the islands

before we get to this strait; but we have one or two desperate men

aboard, though they are quiet enough now. IT IS MY FIRM TRUST AND

BELIEF THAT WE ARE GOING TO BE SAVED.

All food gone.--Captain's Log.[3]

[Ferguson's log continues]

June 12. Stiff breeze, and we are fairly flying--dead ahead of it

--and toward the islands. Good hope, but the prospects of hunger are

awful. Ate ham-bone to-day. It is the captain's birthday; he is

fifty-four years old.

June 13. The ham-rags are not quite all gone yet, and the

boot-legs, we find, are very palatable after we get the salt out of

them. A little smoke, I think, does some little good; but I don't

know.

June 14. Hunger does not pain us much, but we are dreadfully weak.

Our water is getting frightfully low. God grant we may see land

soon! NOTHING TO EAT, but feel better than I did yesterday. Toward

evening saw a magnificent rainbow--THE FIRST WE HAD SEEN. Captain

said, 'Cheer up, boys; it's a prophecy--IT'S THE BOW OF PROMISE!'

June 15. God be for ever praised for His infinite mercy! LAND IN

SIGHT! rapidly neared it and soon were SURE of it .... Two noble

Kanakas swam out and took the boat ashore. We were joyfully

received by two white men--Mr. Jones and his steward Charley--and a

crowd of native men, women, and children. They treated us

splendidly--aided us, and carried us up the bank, and brought us

water, poi, bananas, and green coconuts; but the white men took care

of us and prevented those who would have eaten too much from doing

so. Everybody overjoyed to see us, and all sympathy expressed in

faces, deeds, and words. We were then helped up to the house; and

help we needed. Mr. Jones and Charley are the only white men here.

Treated us splendidly. Gave us first about a teaspoonful of spirits

in water, and then to each a cup of warm tea, with a little bread.

Takes EVERY care of us. Gave us later another cup of tea, and bread

the same, and then let us go to rest. IT IS THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY

LIFE.... God in His mercy has heard our prayer.... Everybody is so

kind. Words cannot tell.

June 16. Mr. Jones gave us a delightful bed, and we surely had a

good night's rest; but not sleep--we were too happy to sleep; would

keep the reality and not let it turn to a delusion--dreaded that we

might wake up and find ourselves in the boat again.

It is an amazing adventure. There is nothing of its sort in history that

surpasses it in impossibilities made possible. In one extraordinary

detail--the survival of every person in the boat--it probably stands

alone in the history of adventures of its kinds. Usually merely a part

of a boat's company survive--officers, mainly, and other educated and

tenderly-reared men, unused to hardship and heavy labour; the untrained,

roughly-reared hard workers succumb. But in this case even the rudest

and roughest stood the privations and miseries of the voyage almost as

well as did the college-bred young brothers and the captain. I mean,

physically. The minds of most of the sailors broke down in the fourth

week and went to temporary ruin, but physically the endurance exhibited

was astonishing. Those men did not survive by any merit of their own, of

course, but by merit of the character and intelligence of the captain;

they lived by the mastery of his spirit. Without him they would have

been children without a nurse; they would have exhausted their provisions

in a week, and their pluck would not have lasted even as long as the

provisions.

The boat came near to being wrecked at the last. As it approached the

shore the sail was let go, and came down with a run; then the captain saw

that he was drifting swiftly toward an ugly reef, and an effort was made

to hoist the sail again; but it could not be done; the men's strength was

wholly exhausted; they could not even pull an oar. They were helpless,

and death imminent. It was then that they were discovered by the two

Kanakas who achieved the rescue. They swam out and manned the boat, and

piloted her through a narrow and hardly noticeable break in the reef--the

only break in it in a stretch of thirty-five miles! The spot where the

landing was made was the only one in that stretch where footing could

have been found on the shore; everywhere else precipices came sheer down

into forty fathoms of water. Also, in all that stretch this was the only

spot where anybody lived.

Within ten days after the landing all the men but one were up and

creeping about. Properly, they ought to have killed themselves with the

'food' of the last few days--some of them, at any rate--men who had

freighted their stomachs with strips of leather from old boots and with

chips from the butter cask; a freightage which they did not get rid of by

digestion, but by other means. The captain and the two passengers did

not eat strips and chips, as the sailors did, but scraped the

boot-leather and the wood, and made a pulp of the scrapings by moistening

them with water. The third mate told me that the boots were old and full

of holes; then added thoughtfully, 'but the holes digested the best.'

Speaking of digestion, here is a remarkable thing, and worth nothing:

during this strange voyage, and for a while afterward on shore, the

bowels of some of the men virtually ceased from their functions; in some

cases there was no action for twenty and thirty days, and in one case for

forty-four! Sleeping also came to be rare. Yet the men did very well

without it. During many days the captain did not sleep at all

--twenty-one, I think, on one stretch.

When the landing was made, all the men were successfully protected from

over-eating except the 'Portyghee;' he escaped the watch and ate an

incredible number of bananas: a hundred and fifty-two, the third mate

said, but this was undoubtedly an exaggeration; I think it was a hundred

and fifty-one. He was already nearly half full of leather; it was

hanging out of his ears. (I do not state this on the third mate's

authority, for we have seen what sort of a person he was; I state it on

my own.) The 'Portyghee' ought to have died, of course, and even now it

seems a pity that he didn't; but he got well, and as early as any of

them; and all full of leather, too, the way he was, and butter-timber and

handkerchiefs and bananas. Some of the men did eat handkerchiefs in

those last days, also socks; and he was one of them.

It is to the credit of the men that they did not kill the rooster that

crowed so gallantly mornings. He lived eighteen days, and then stood up

and stretched his neck and made a brave, weak effort to do his duty once

more, and died in the act. It is a picturesque detail; and so is that

rainbow, too--the only one seen in the forty-three days,--raising its

triumphal arch in the skies for the sturdy fighters to sail under to

victory and rescue.

With ten days' provisions Captain Josiah Mitchell performed this

memorable voyage of forty-three days and eight hours in an open boat,

sailing four thousand miles in reality and thirty-three hundred and sixty

by direct courses, and brought every man safe to land. A bright,

simple-hearted, unassuming, plucky, and most companionable man. I walked

the deck with him twenty-eight days--when I was not copying diaries,--and

I remember him with reverent honour. If he is alive he is eighty-six

years old now.

If I remember rightly, Samuel Ferguson died soon after we reached San

Francisco. I do not think he lived to see his home again; his disease

had been seriously aggravated by his hardships.

For a time it was hoped that the two quarter-boats would presently be

heard of, but this hope suffered disappointment. They went down with all

on board, no doubt, not even sparing that knightly chief mate.

The authors of the diaries allowed me to copy them exactly as they were

written, and the extracts that I have given are without any smoothing

over or revision. These diaries are finely modest and unaffected, and

with unconscious and unintentional art they rise toward the climax with

graduated and gathering force and swing and dramatic intensity; they

sweep you along with a cumulative rush, and when the cry rings out at

last, 'Land in sight!' your heart is in your mouth, and for a moment you

think it is you that have been saved. The last two paragraphs are not

improvable by anybody's art; they are literary gold; and their very

pauses and uncompleted sentences have in them an eloquence not reachable

by any words.

The interest of this story is unquenchable; it is of the sort that time

cannot decay. I have not looked at the diaries for thirty-two years, but

I find that they have lost nothing in that time. Lost? They have

gained; for by some subtle law all tragic human experiences gain in

pathos by the perspective of time. We realize this when in Naples we

stand musing over the poor Pompeian mother, lost in the historic storm of

volcanic ashes eighteen centuries ago, who lies with her child gripped

close to her breast, trying to save it, and whose despair and grief have

been preserved for us by the fiery envelope which took her life but

eternalized her form and features. She moves us, she haunts us, she

stays in our thoughts for many days, we do not know why, for she is

nothing to us, she has been nothing to anyone for eighteen centuries;

whereas of the like case to-day we should say, 'Poor thing! it is

pitiful,' and forget it in an hour.

[1] There are nineteen days of voyaging ahead yet.--M.T.

[2] Six days to sail yet, nevertheless.--M.T.

[3] It was at this time discovered that the crazed sailors had gotten the

delusion that the captain had a million dollars in gold concealed aft,

and they were conspiring to kill him and the two passengers and seize it.

--M.T.

AT THE APPETITE-CURE

This establishment's name is Hochberghaus. It is in Bohemia, a short

day's journey from Vienna, and being in the Austrian Empire is of course

a health resort. The empire is made up of health resorts; it distributes

health to the whole world. Its waters are all medicinal. They are

bottled and sent throughout the earth; the natives themselves drink beer.

This is self-sacrifice apparently--but outlanders who have drunk Vienna

beer have another idea about it. Particularly the Pilsner which one gets

in a small cellar up an obscure back lane in the First Bezirk--the name

has escaped me, but the place is easily found: You inquire for the Greek

church; and when you get to it, go right along by--the next house is that

little beer-mill. It is remote from all traffic and all noise; it is

always Sunday there. There are two small rooms, with low ceilings

supported by massive arches; the arches and ceilings are whitewashed,

otherwise the rooms would pass for cells in the dungeons of a bastile.

The furniture is plain and cheap, there is no ornamentation anywhere; yet

it is a heaven for the self-sacrificers, for the beer there is

incomparable; there is nothing like it elsewhere in the world. In the

first room you will find twelve or fifteen ladies and gentlemen of

civilian quality; in the other one a dozen generals and ambassadors. One

may live in Vienna many months and not hear of this place; but having

once heard of it and sampled it, the sampler will afterward infest it.

However, this is all incidental--a mere passing note of gratitude for

blessings received--it has nothing to do with my subject. My subject is

health resorts. All unhealthy people ought to domicile themselves in

Vienna, and use that as a base, making flights from time to time to the

outlying resorts, according to need. A flight to Marienbad to get rid of

fat; a flight to Carlsbad to get rid of rheumatism; a flight to

Kalteneutgeben to take the water cure and get rid of the rest of the

diseases. It is all so handy. You can stand in Vienna and toss a

biscuit into Kaltenleutgeben, with a twelve-inch gun. You can run out

thither at any time of the day; you go by phenomenally slow trains, and

yet inside of an hour you have exchanged the glare and swelter of the

city for wooded hills, and shady forest paths, and soft cool airs, and

the music of birds, and the repose and the peace of paradise.

And there are plenty of other health resorts at your service and

convenient to get at from Vienna; charming places, all of them; Vienna

sits in the centre of a beautiful world of mountains with now and then a

lake and forests; in fact, no other city is so fortunately situated.

There is an abundance of health resorts, as I have said. Among them this

place--Hochberghaus. It stands solitary on the top of a densely wooded

mountain, and is a building of great size. It is called the Appetite

Anstallt, and people who have lost their appetites come here to get them

restored. When I arrived I was taken by Professor Haimberger to his

consulting-room and questioned:

'It is six o'clock. When did you eat last?'

'At noon.'

'What did you eat?'

'Next to nothing.'

'What was on the table?'

'The usual things.'

'Chops, chickens, vegetables, and so on?'

'Yes; but don't mention them--I can't bear it.'

'Are you tired of them?'

'Oh, utterly. I wish I might never hear of them again.'

'The mere sight of food offends you, does it?'

'More, it revolts me.'

The doctor considered awhile, then got out a long menu and ran his eye

slowly down it.

'I think,' said he, 'that what you need to eat is--but here, choose for

yourself.'

I glanced at the list, and my stomach threw a hand-spring. Of all the

barbarous lay-outs that were ever contrived, this was the most atrocious.

At the top stood 'tough, underdone, overdue tripe, garnished with

garlic;' half-way down the bill stood 'young cat; old cat; scrambled

cat;' at the bottom stood 'sailor-boots, softened with tallow--served

raw.' The wide intervals of the bill were packed with dishes calculated

to gag a cannibal. I said:

'Doctor, it is not fair to joke over so serious a case as mine. I came

here to get an appetite, not to throw away the remnant that's left.'

He said gravely: 'I am not joking; why should I joke?'

'But I can't eat these horrors.'

'Why not?'

He said it with a naivete that was admirable, whether it was real or

assumed.

'Why not? Because--why, doctor, for months I have seldom been able to

endure anything more substantial than omelettes and custards. These

unspeakable dishes of yours--'

'Oh, you will come to like them. They are very good. And you must eat

them. It is a rule of the place, and is strict. I cannot permit any

departure from it.'

I said smiling: 'Well, then, doctor, you will have to permit the

departure of the patient. I am going.'

He looked hurt, and said in a way which changed the aspect of things:

'I am sure you would not do me that injustice. I accepted you in good

faith--you will not shame that confidence. This appetite-cure is my

whole living. If you should go forth from it with the sort of appetite

which you now have, it could become known, and you can see, yourself,

that people would say my cure failed in your case and hence can fail in

other cases. You will not go; you will not do me this hurt.'

I apologised and said I would stay.

'That is right. I was sure you would not go; it would take the food from

my family's mouths.'

'Would they mind that? Do they eat these fiendish things?'

'They? My family?' His eyes were full of gentle wonder. 'Of course

not.'

'Oh, they don't! Do you?'

'Certainly not.'

'I see. It's another case of a physician who doesn't take his own

medicine.'

'I don't need it. It is six hours since you lunched. Will you have

supper now--or later?'

'I am not hungry, but now is as good a time as any, and I would like to

be done with it and have it off my mind. It is about my usual time, and

regularity is commanded by all the authorities. Yes, I will try to

nibble a little now--I wish a light horsewhipping would answer instead.'

The professor handed me that odious menu.

'Choose--or will you have it later?'

'Oh, dear me, show me to my room; I forgot your hard rule.'

'Wait just a moment before you finally decide. There is another rule.

If you choose now, the order will be filled at once; but if you wait, you

will have to await my pleasure. You cannot get a dish from that entire

bill until I consent.'

'All right. Show me to my room, and send the cook to bed; there is not

going to be any hurry.'

The professor took me up one flight of stairs and showed me into a most

inviting and comfortable apartment consisting of parlour, bedchamber, and

bathroom.

The front windows looked out over a far-reaching spread of green glades

and valleys, and tumbled hills clothed with forests--a noble solitude

unvexed by the fussy world. In the parlour were many shelves filled with

books. The professor said he would now leave me to myself; and added:

'Smoke and read as much as you please, drink all the water you like.

When you get hungry, ring and give your order, and I will decide whether

it shall be filled or not. Yours is a stubborn, bad case, and I think

the first fourteen dishes in the bill are each and all too delicate for

its needs. I ask you as a favour to restrain yourself and not call for

them.'

'Restrain myself, is it? Give yourself no uneasiness. You are going to

save money by me. The idea of coaxing a sick man's appetite back with

this buzzard-fare is clear insanity.'

I said it with bitterness, for I felt outraged by this calm, cold talk

over these heartless new engines of assassination. The doctor looked

grieved, but not offended. He laid the bill of fare of the commode at my

bed's head, 'so that it would be handy,' and said:

'Yours is not the worst case I have encountered, by any means; still it

is a bad one and requires robust treatment; therefore I shall be

gratified if you will restrain yourself and skip down to No. 15 and begin

with that.'

Then he left me and I began to undress, for I was dog-tired and very

sleepy. I slept fifteen hours and woke up finely refreshed at ten the

next morning. Vienna coffee! It was the first thing I thought of--that

unapproachable luxury--that sumptuous coffee-house coffee, compared with

which all other European coffee and all American hotel coffee is mere

fluid poverty. I rang, and ordered it; also Vienna bread, that delicious

invention. The servant spoke through the wicket in the door and said

--but you know what he said. He referred me to the bill of fare.

I allowed him to go--I had no further use for him.

After the bath I dressed and started for a walk, and got as far as the

door. It was locked on the outside. I rang, and the servant came and

explained that it was another rule. The seclusion of the patient was

required until after the first meal. I had not been particularly anxious

to get out before; but it was different now. Being locked in makes a

person wishful to get out. I soon began to find it difficult to put in

the time. At two o'clock I had been twenty-six hours without food. I

had been growing hungry for some time; I recognised that I was not only

hungry now, but hungry with a strong adjective in front of it. Yet I was

not hungry enough to face the bill of fare.

I must put in the time somehow. I would read and smoke. I did it; hour

by hour. The books were all of one breed--shipwrecks; people lost in

deserts; people shut up in caved-in mines; people starving in besieged

cities. I read about all the revolting dishes that ever famishing men

had stayed their hunger with. During the first hours these things

nauseated me: hours followed in which they did not so affect me; still

other hours followed in which I found myself smacking my lips over some

tolerably infernal messes. When I had been without food forty-five hours

I ran eagerly to the bell and ordered the second dish in the bill, which

was a sort of dumplings containing a compost made of caviar and tar.

It was refused me. During the next fifteen hours I visited the bell

every now and then and ordered a dish that was further down the list.

Always a refusal. But I was conquering prejudice after prejudice, right

along; I was making sure progress; I was creeping up on No. 15 with

deadly certainty, and my heart beat faster and faster, my hopes rose

higher and higher.

At last when food had not passed my lips for sixty hours, victory was

mine, and I ordered No. 15:

'Soft-boiled spring chicken--in the egg; six dozen, hot and fragrant!'

In fifteen minutes it was there; and the doctor along with it, rubbing

his hands with joy. He said with great excitement:

'It's a cure, it's a cure! I knew I could do it. Dear sir, my grand

system never failed--never. You've got your appetite back--you know you

have; say it and make me happy.'

'Bring on your carrion--I can eat anything in the bill!'

'Oh, this is noble, this is splendid--but I knew I could do it, the

system never fails. How are the birds?'

'Never was anything so delicious in the world; and yet as a rule I don't

care for game. But don't interrupt me, don't--I can't spare my mouth, I

really can't.'

Then the doctor said:

'The cure is perfect. There is no more doubt nor danger. Let the

poultry alone; I can trust you with a beefsteak, now.'

The beefsteak came--as much as a basketful of it--with potatoes, and

Vienna bread and coffee; and I ate a meal then that was worth all the

costly preparation I had made for it. And dripped tears of gratitude

into the gravy all the time--gratitude to the doctor for putting a little

plain common-sense into me when I had been empty of it so many, many

years.

II

Thirty years ago Haimberger went off on a long voyage in a sailing-ship.

There were fifteen passengers on board. The table-fare was of the

regulation pattern of the day: At 7 in the morning, a cup of bad coffee

in bed; at 9, breakfast: bad coffee, with condensed milk; soggy rolls,

crackers, salt fish; at 1 P.M., luncheon: cold tongue, cold ham, cold

corned beef, soggy cold rolls, crackers; 5 P.M., dinner: thick pea soup,

salt fish, hot corned beef and sour kraut, boiled pork and beans,

pudding; 9 till 11 P.M., supper: tea, with condensed milk, cold tongue,

cold ham, pickles, sea-biscuit, pickled oysters, pickled pigs' feet,

grilled bones, golden buck.

At the end of the first week eating had ceased, nibbling had taken its

place. The passengers came to the table, but it was partly to put in the

time, and partly because the wisdom of the ages commanded them to be

regular in their meals. They were tired of the coarse and monotonous

fare, and took no interest in it, had no appetite for it. All day and

every day they roamed the ship half hungry, plagued by their gnawing

stomachs, moody, untalkative, miserable. Among them were three confirmed

dyspeptics. These became shadows in the course of three weeks. There

was also a bed-ridden invalid; he lived on boiled rice; he could not look

at the regular dishes.

Now came shipwrecks and life in open boats, with the usual paucity of

food. Provisions ran lower and lower. The appetites improved, then.

When nothing was left but raw ham and the ration of that was down to two

ounces a day per person, the appetites were perfect. At the end of

fifteen days the dyspeptics, the invalid, and the most delicate ladies in

the party were chewing sailor-boots in ecstasy, and only complaining

because the supply of them was limited. Yet these were the same people

who couldn't endure the ship's tedious corned beef and sour kraut and

other crudities. They were rescued by an English vessel. Within ten

days the whole fifteen were in as good condition as they had been when

the shipwreck occurred.

'They had suffered no damage by their adventure,' said the professor.

'Do you note that?'

'Yes.'

'Do you note it well?'

'Yes--I think I do.'

'But you don't. You hesitate. You don't rise to the importance of it.

I will say it again--with emphasis--not one of them suffered any damage.'

'Now I begin to see. Yes, it was indeed remarkable.'

'Nothing of the kind. It was perfectly natural. There was no reason why

they should suffer damage. They were undergoing Nature's Appetite-Cure,

the best and wisest in the world.'

'Is that where you got your idea?'

'That is where I got it.'

'It taught those people a valuable lesson.'